


Certain Dark Things

by coffeehigh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Forgiveness, Moving on after Voldemort, Post - Deathly Hallows, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehigh/pseuds/coffeehigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Astoria never assumed things was both a blessing and a curse in the courtship of Draco Malfoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is based on the books and characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. The title and the lines of poetry after the chapters come from Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII. No money is being made from this. No infringement on copyright is intended.

  
_I love you as certain dark things are loved,_   
_...between the shadow and the soul._   
_-Sonnet XVII_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

 

          There were days when he wished she was one of those girls that assumed things. Like the way Pansy had _known_ that she would be his date to the Yule Ball, even before he had asked her. Or the way Pansy had _expected_ that they would fuck afterwards, so that when the time came for him to lead her from the Great Hall to that deserted classroom that he had Goyle guard for him, she practically dragged him there. Because truly, if Astoria merely confronted him with an assumption, it would have made his life so much easier.

          However this was Astoria.

          The person who he first met at a party in the Greengrass Estate, lurking in the balcony, wedged between the white marble handrail and the potted trees.

          “Hiding, if you must know," she said at the time, answering his unspoken question. “If you could keep it down, you’re more than welcome to stay.”

          If anything, he could appreciate the irony. Various single girls flirted, maximizing the opportunity this event afforded them and she, the cause for the celebration, was hiding at her own coming out party.

          He could also appreciate the company. Because he was hiding too, hiding from the whispers and the censure and the pointed stares that inevitably would rest on his forearm. He didn’t even know why he was invited to the party; he was thinking it was due to how Potter seemed to have pardoned the charges against his mother.

          He recognized her because her mother had announced her when she stepped down the grand staircase into the glittering crowd in the ballroom. He remembered taking one look at her, with the blank expression, plastic smile and fluffy, virginal white dress and just as quickly dismissed her as all right but not quite as attractive as her sister Daphne.

          What he didn’t know was if she recognized him. Perhaps she didn’t or she wouldn’t have been so willing when she gave him permission to share her hiding space.

          “I’m Draco Malfoy.” He felt it was only fair to introduce himself, a sort of warning regarding the poor company that she was keeping.

          “I gathered.” She whispered at the same time motioned with her hands to silence him. “Daphne pointed you out once in school. You were shorter then.”

          He felt like laughing at that. He was many things while in Hogwarts. Arrogant. Idiotic. Former Death Eater. Shorter, although true, was the least of the list.

          She peered around his shoulder as if looking for something, or someone in the ballroom. He felt heat rise in his cheeks and he recognized the feeling. He had spent the better part of his post-war life listening to half-baked excuses as to why people needed to leave his company when they could not in polite company really say the truth- that they did not like to be seen with him. And she was looking around his shoulder, as if taking notes on who was keeping watch, like she was ashamed to be seen talking to him.

          “I better leave you alone, Greengrass.” The words were out quickly. Better him saying them than her.

          But before he could continue, she raised a finger to her lips and placed her other hand on his mouth to silence him.

          “Shh.”

          “…oh, Ravenclaw has taught my daughter well. I assure you she can manage household finances, throw magnificent parties. This party, in fact, was partly organized by…” The voice wafted to them then faded from the ballroom despite the closed the French doors.

          “And there’s that.” The finality in her impertinent voice caused a side of his mouth to turn upward.

          Her hand covering his mouth felt soft against his lips and the clean scent of oranges wafted to his nose. He resisted the urge to inhale deeply or to move his lips again in hopes of resolving their strange tingling.

          Draco gently removed her hand from his mouth. It was an act of self preservation.

          “Was she supposed to be describing you?” He turned to her, amusement genuine.

          “Out by 18, married by 20, an heir by 21. Oh, as if you don’t know the drill.” The warmth of her lopsided grin stopped him.  Her hand was still in his and he knew, _was certain_ that when he lets go, she would not wipe it against the waste of cloth that her mother called a ball gown.

          When he met her green eyes, half amused and half wary, he realized that there was something missing. Something that made him drop her hand and pull up short.

          “You’re a fool, Greengrass.” He meant it too. “Not that many acceptable purebloods out there.”

          He watched as she shrugged a dramatic, Gallic shrug. “Purebloods don’t seem all that fashionable these days, with Harry being named Witch Weekly’s Bachelor of the Year, two years counting.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. And he realized, she meant it too. 

***

          On very rare days, Draco would brave The Leaky Cauldron. These usually occurred when he needed to do business in Gringotts and the thirty minute line of the public floo system to his home was too long of a wait to get sloshed.

          This was one of those days and he chose, like he always did, a table in the back, under the shadow of a stone archway and nursed a glass of Firewhiskey.

          She entered an hour later, when he was well into his fourth glass. She didn’t seem to notice him. She didn’t seem to notice anything. She merely took the table next to his, propped open a book- _Potions for Health_ \- and signaled to a waitstaff. She distractedly ordered a meal and quickly went back to reading, only looking up to thank the guy for her order before promptly falling back into her text.

          He observed her over the rim of his glass and found himself shaking his head at the image she presented. Her hair was in a messy bun, glasses were perched on her nose and her eyes had the squint lines of someone who read too much.

_Ravenclaw,_ her mother had said. And Astoria Greengrass definitely filled the stereotype. Draco felt she should have listened to her mother and dated the guy she was being introduced to during her coming out ball, because that night she had been made up nicely and unlike now, didn’t look like she would bore people to sleep.

          He opened his mouth to tease her about dating her book when a gruff voice called out.

          “What’s scum like you doing here, Malfoy.”

          There were three of them, all stocky with muscled arms curled around three thickly made up witches. They seemed to be headed upstairs to the rooms above the Leaky Cauldron. Of the three, he recognized one of them.

_A Gryffindor._

          He concentrated, trying to attach a name to his face.

_McLaggen._

          Draco steadied himself, biting back the words that he wanted to say. He thought three years ago, before the war, he would have said something. Two years ago, immediately after the war, although he made up his mind to stay away from public scrutiny, he might not have been able to control himself. Today, he’d like to believe that he knew better. He’d like to believe that two years of a confiscated wand and banned Apparition, two years of veiled threats to his mother when he made small moves out of line, and two years of public shunning was a long enough time to sober him.

          But he couldn’t bring himself to reply nicely. So he chose to ignore them.

          “Maybe you should give yourself up to the Aurors. I heard they’re looking for live target practice. Nothing like real screams to sharpen skills.”

          “Potter may be soft, letting you off like that, but we think you should join your buddies Azkaban.” Draco stared determinedly at the bottom of his glass.

          “Well, he wouldn’t have any buddies there,” McLaggen interrupted his friend, “because if the story’s correct, one of his baby Death Eater bodyguards burned to death in Hogwarts.

          The blood rushing to Draco’s face made the room feel warm.

_His name was Vincent._

          Crabbe’s actions may not have been accepted in this new magical world, but he was still a friend. He shared a room with the guy for six years. It felt wrong that he would be relegated to the term baby Death Eater bodyguard.

          But before he could speak, a dry, calm voice chimed in from the side.

          “Boys,” Astoria’s voice sounded bored. Although still sitting with her book floating in front of her, she already had her wand out. “Perhaps you should take your ladies upstairs and stop paying Malfoy attention. Before the girls start wondering if you are actually interested _in girls_.”

          The three wizards stared at her incredulously. Draco sympathized with them. He could hardly believe himself that she had just insulted three men, each twice her size, without even a note of nervousness.

          One of the men must have realized that she was just a distraction because he refocused on Draco.

          “Without big bad Voldemort around, you’re just a pussy aren’t you, Malfoy, needing a girl to defend you,” he sneered. “Especially one so….” The look he threw Astoria was something that Draco was familiar with. It was the same expression that had resided on his face whenever he came across Ron Weasley.

          And before he could stop himself, his fist had connected with the closest of the three. The guy stumbled backwards, taking with him the girl he had his arm around and careened into McLaggen. The ensuing chaos was one Draco was prepared for and he vaulted over the table, taking advantage of their surprise to slip past them. He held out his hand towards Astoria, who looked at it surprised.

          “You started it,” Draco said. “I can’t leave you here.”

          She got over her surprise quickly enough to stuff her book into her bag.

          Then they ran.

          They were eight blocks away before they stopped.

          “For the record-” she sounded breathless- “Malfoy, _you_ started it.”

          If it were possible to laugh in one’s thought that was what he was doing at the moment.

          “I wasn’t the one who called them homosexual.” He was winded as well. He forced himself up from his stooped forward position.

          “ _Implied._ Not called. And _you threw_ the first punch.” She laughed which quickly turned into a coughing fit. She was red in the face when she stopped but she forced her next words through. “I wish you let them finish what they thought of me, though. I wanted to have reasonable cause when I cursed them. And I wish you actually let me curse them.”

          “Why bother?” The question was something he didn’t mean to ask. Not that he thought they weren’t worth cursing, but rather why had she gone out of her way to defend him.

          He leaned against the wall opposite her, waiting for his breathing to normalize.

          She gave him a shrug, again that very Gallic shrug. “You weren’t doing anything. If you did something wrong, I would have sided with them.”

          She was just beginning to catch her breath. Her breasts were still heaving beneath her robes, her cheeks were in high color and her hair had slipped from her bun and had fallen around her shoulders, disheveled. His mind made connections the way all male minds made connections. He forced himself to look away.

          “You know,” she said, “your punch works as well but I thought using a wand would have been better.” Her cold rationality so far fazed Draco. He thought he was over his reaction to public opinion but his face burned again. He mumbled his reply.

          “Sorry. Didn’t catch that.”

          “No wand.” His answer was forced through gritted teeth. 

          “Oh, so you really are just happy to see me.”

          His head snapped towards hers, surprised at her comment. Her face showed amusement and he realized that she was teasing him. If he’d been the one who was ran out of a pub and dragged across Diagon Alley by a criminal who had just admitted his sentence, he’d be furious. She, on the other hand, just took everything in stride and could see enough humor in the situation to make a joke. A sexually charged, extremely embarrassing, highly inappropriate one, but a joke still. 

          “It was confiscated. I was tried by the Wizengamot. The details weren’t made public.”

          “Because you were a minor.”

          He was impressed that she knew that piece of Wizarding law. Then he remembered, _Ravenclaw._

          He nodded then continued. “There were extenuating circumstances but what those wizards in the Leaky thought weren’t true. I wasn’t exactly found innocent and they did punish me. They were just more…”

          “Creative with punishment?” She finished. “How long?”

          “Two years. Can’t Apparate. Can’t travel abroad. It’s nearly over now.”

          There. He admitted that he was found guilty. Everybody else had merely speculated, but since trials of minors were closed to the public, he never really talked about the details of his punishment to anyone except his mother.

          He expected derision, but her eyes were clear and mostly curious.

          “Two years. Living without Apparition, perhaps, but I don’t think I’d last that long without a wand.”

          His last encounter with her came back to his mind, how he had seen something missing in her eyes that made him step back. And he finally realized what it was.

_Judgement._

          Astoria made absolutely no assumptions regarding him.

          “Look, I don’t know if _you_ actually _know_ how to go home from here. I can take you. Side along apparation.”

          It was so tempting. Draco pursed his lips. “I can’t.”

          “Think of it as my thank you for saving my ego back there.” Noting his expression, she gave a sigh. “I won’t tell the Aurors.”

          “I know you won’t.” And Draco found that he really believed her. “But I’ll floo home.”

          She nodded, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Good choice.” Then with a turn and a pop, she was gone.

***

          A week later found him sitting at one of the guest lounges at St. Mungo’s waiting for her shift to end.

          Trainee Healer.

          It was so far off from the ‘girl who can manage household finances and throw magnificent parties’ and all the other pureblood wife skills her mother had mentioned she had. It was so….

_…Ravenclaw._

          He shifted around in the rough wooden chair. It was an hour and a half ago when he informed one of the nurses, a middle aged, stern looking witch that he was there to see Trainee Healer Greengrass and Astoria still wasn’t in sight. He didn’t know if the nurse even gave her his message. The nurse’s sneer when he said his name was punctuated with an impolite stare at his forearm. He pursed his lips to keep them from falling into a sneer of his own, thinking that any outward sign of displeasure would mean his message might end up undelivered.

          At two hours past his first arrival at St. Mungo’s, Draco stood up for the nth time, purposely avoiding the middle aged witch and approached one of the younger nurses, a blonde, with unusually red cheeks and shiny lipstick.

          “I’ve been waiting for Trainee Healer Greengrass? They told me she was off at five. It’s seven. Has there been something keeping her?” Malfoy flashed a charming smile. The young witch batted her eyelashes at him and smiled back. “I’ll send her a no-“

          “You’ll do nothing of the kind Zenia,” a voice interrupted. The stern looking witch, who a moment ago was on the other side of the counter, faced Draco. “Mr. Malfoy,” _a sneer_ , “your message has been delivered to Healer Greengrass. We’ve tolerated your presence here. But if your kind isn’t used to waiting, you may feel free to use our exits.”

          Draco clutched his forearm unconsciously. He was surprised how fast his face had fallen into a sneer. “And what is my kind exactly madam?”

          She gave a pointed look at his forearm before meeting his eyes. “We’ve delivered your message.”

          Draco resisted the urge to shout. But what would he say anyway? That his father would hear about this?

          All around, it felt like other visitors were looking at him. He hoped that his face, pale as it was, wasn’t red, from anger or shame or any combination of the two. He tried to ignore the whispers as he walked calmly towards the front doors.

          He was a block away when he realized that somebody was calling his name. It took a firm grasp on his forearm to stop him.

          “ _What!_ ” The snarl was out before he could stop himself. He tried to snatch his arm back and spun around to confront his assailant.

          Then he realized it was her. She must have run all the way from St. Mungo’s to catch him.

          She teetered backwards in surprise and it took her hand still grasping his forearm and his other arm encircling her waist to prevent her fall.

          “They told me you just left.” She sounded breathless. “They said you were there, waiting, then you just left.”

          “They told me you were off at five. It’s,” he took his antique pocket watch from his robes and snapped it open as if to emphasize his point, “seven.”

          “I always get off at seven.” Her voice was nonchalant. “I’m training to be a Healer. We’re overworked and underpaid. You should have sent an owl yesterday or this morning saying that you were planning on visiting. I would have asked for one of the other healers to cover for me so I can take off early.”

          “I told one of the nurses that I would see you after work.”

          “That’s what they told me. But I still couldn’t get off earlier. Not without prior notice.”

          “Work should have ended at five. You should have gone down to the lounge at five. You do know that Malfoys do not wait?”

          She rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah, and Greengrass girls _do not_ get jobs. But things have changed since the war. Money gets depleted. So there’s a first time for everything.”

          He huffed at her comment but her wry smile drained the ire out of him.

          He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the waiting that got to him, that although Malfoys don’t wait, after two years of waiting for food to cook without the aid of magic, two years of waiting at Floo lines, two years of waiting for his sentence to end, he had gotten used to waiting. But he couldn’t really bring himself to tell her about the stares. He could just imagine how she would scoff at his indignation.

          So he steered clear of the topic instead. “You know,” he began, “I don’t really recall Daphne even considering working.”

          “She didn’t and she isn’t.” Her grin widened. “Let me change my reason. I felt it a waste of my N.E.W.T.s to just plan parties.”

          Her eyes were crinkled at the corners at her own cockiness. Draco couldn’t look away.

          Her hand was still resting on his forearm and his arm was still around her waist supporting her and before reason and doubt reentered his mind, he had asked her out.

          He wondered if he imagined her yes.


	2. Chapter 2

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
 _but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
-Sonnet XVII from _100 love sonnets,_ **Pablo Neruda**

            Three days later, he braved the lobby of St. Mungo’s and the nasty nurse’s gaze as he waited for Astoria. When she stepped down to meet him, not a minute later than their agreed upon six, he had expected Healer’s robes and glasses and he was struck with the realization that he wouldn’t have minded.

            Instead he got an elegant black dress, hair falling in waves around her smooth shoulders and a dainty pearl necklace nestled in a most intriguing hollow at the base of her neck.

            Draco had to swallow several times past the lump in his throat.

            “Draco.” Her voice was low and husky and soft and its tone seemed to be for his ears alone.

            He thought of the things Pansy had told him back at Hogwarts, about how he was to compliment girls, that he should start with flattering adjectives and then mention their hair or their dress but all he could think about was how under the bright aseptic lights, Astoria’s skin glowed golden. And how her dress showed quite a lot of it. His tongue felt leaden and stuck to the roof of his mouth.

            “Are you all right?” Astoria’s forehead was furrowed. “You look flushed. Is it that cold out?”

            And Draco realized that the opportunity for complimenting her had passed. He cleared his throat. “Umm… Yes, quite. I hope you brought a coat.”

            They walked the two blocks to the restaurant. Ideally they would have Apparated there. He remembered how his mother would complain to his father if she had to walk far distances in her dragonhide pumps. When he mumbled something close to an apology for letting her walk, Astoria replied: “Don’t tell me Malfoys don’t walk.”

            It was probably the first time that he felt apologetic for his elitist tastes and mortified by the thought that he just might have to admit it. But the amused look she gave him assuaged something inside him and he found himself biting back a wry grin.

            The restaurant Draco took Astoria to was one of those places where reservations were needed but his family never had problems in the past getting a table without them and he didn’t think to bother. But that was before the war. And a part of Draco refused to test if the same courtesy would be extended to his name at present times.

            They were stopped by a wizard wearing a waistcoat and a top hat at the door. Draco held his breath and gave the maitre d’ his most impatient look. He assessed their clothes with a calculating smile and told them that if they were willing to wait for ten minutes then they were sure to be seated.

            “We’ve never had problems getting a table before so I didn’t bother with reservations.” Draco told Astoria, trying for smug, trying not to sound defensive. She eyed him critically but she avoided commenting and Draco was suddenly afraid of what she was thinking.

            “Is there anything wrong?” Draco’s forehead furrowed. “Is ten minutes too long?”

            She shook her head the amused smile was back on her lips. “I was thinking that dinner at Bellisima definitely makes up for my hospital food lunch.” Her smile widened. “So thank you for that.”

            It had started to snow and little white flakes drifted down and tangled in her hair and eyelashes. Her lips were red from the temperature. Despite the cold, Draco felt unusually warm. He loosened his scarf.

           “Why don’t you just order better food?” He asked. He knew- despite Astoria’s quip the other day about Greengrass girls needing to get jobs- that they managed to escape the war with their wealth and social standing intact.

           “I don’t like people thinking that _I think_ I’m better than them.” She turned the collar of her coat up then moved to do the same to his collar. “It’s not a good attitude for a Healer to have. Besides I’m **_not_** better.”

            He was so distracted by the feel of her fingertips against his neck that he almost didn’t notice the maitre d’ hovering beside them.

            “Ahem…” The wizard was trying to get their attention. Draco then realized that something must have gone wrong. Instead of a smile, he gave them both a disdainful look.

           “ _Mr. Malfoy,_ we are fully booked and I’m afraid there won’t be a table available,” he said unctuously. Draco felt his stomach clench. It was what he had feared would happen. All around them, he could feel people staring. He turned to Astoria, humiliated, when her expression stopped him short.

           “You told us that a table would be available after ten minutes,” she told the wizard. She had both hands on her hips.

            “Yes.” The wizard met her expression of disdain with one of his own. “Well it seems we are now fully booked.”

            Draco grabbed her arm. “Look, let’s just go.”

            “You-” Astoria jabbed her finger against the maitre d’s chest. “-made us wait ten minutes. For nothing!”

            “Well young lady, we do try to maintain a certain degree of decorum around here.” The wizard’s disdain increased. “Which is why we do not allow certain types of people in.”

            “And what type would that be?”

            “Why his kind, of course!” The wizard gave her an incredulous look. “Malfoys! Death Eaters! I’m assuming proper lady that you are that you merely didn’t know.”

            “Are you implying that I am stupid and ill informed, you- you- condescending, sycophantic, self-righteous idiot? If Harry Potter could find it in him to pardon Mr. Malfoy, I don’t see what right you have to condemn him.”

            “Testa di cazzo!” The wizard muttered. “Well then we can’t allow you in here in the future.”

            Astoria merely shrugged and was already halfway across the street when to Draco’s surprise and mortification, she turned around. “It’s Greengrass by the by,” she shouted to the wizard. “Astoria Greengrass. Just so you know who you’re banning from this place.”

            Draco would give both arms and legs, even his name- for what it’s worth- to be able to Disapparate at that moment. He was half running and he knew he should slow down for her but all he wanted to do was to get away. Away from the incessant murmuring of the other people in line.

            The clicking of her heels against the pavement suddenly stopped. Then he heard her call after him.

“Draco, we’ve had four meetings, three of which involved some amount of running. I’m beginning to think I can never wear heels when I’m with you.”

            He spun around. She was a few meters behind him, out of breath. How she managed to keep up with him in that dress, in those heels he had no idea. Why was she even bothering to go after him was beyond him.

            “You always have some witty comment, don’t you? Didn’t you realize what that prick called you?” Draco hated the fact that he sounded bitter. He hated himself more when he saw her expression darken.

            “Yes, I speak Italian. I understood him perfectly, Draco.” Her tone was dry. “He was stupid and impolite and frankly annoying. But it’s also true that I am in a date with a former Death Eater.”

            He looked away from her. This was where she would say _thanks for the evening but I have early rounds tomorrow_ or something and he would try to shrug it off nonchalantly. And if he was asked where it went wrong, he would say she wasn’t pretty enough and was boring as hell except he would only be comforting his ego.

            He shook his head and tried to swallow the feeling of embarrassment that was creeping up to tinge his cheeks. “I’ll just take you home then.”

            She stared at him intently and Draco was suddenly afraid of what she was seeing.

            Warily, she asked, “aren’t we having dinner?”

            “Huh?”

            Astoria threw her hands up. “What do you want me to say Draco? I said yes to a date tonight understanding the repercussions. So we’re banned from Bellisima. I’m hungry. Let’s just go to muggle London.”

            He felt his mortification increase. Malfoys never deign to step out into muggle London let alone take dates there. Not when the date in question dressed up to eat at a place like Bellisima.

            As if reading his mind, she rolled her eyes. “Not good enough for a Malfoy?”

***

            He took his first step into Muggle London.

            And felt nothing.

            The earth didn’t shatter. The pure blood coursing through his veins did not boil with the contamination. The shade of Lucius Malfoy did not rise up with the howling of the wind to tell him off for his treachery.

            The world remained quite unchanged, with the only difference being something, somewhere inside of him.

            It was a bit anti-climactic, and Draco was struck with three quarters of relief and a quarter of disappointment.

            “It’s safe enough,” Astoria declared, “unless we step into Soho.” Then she stopped and jerked abruptly, “Unless, of course if you’re into that, and I’m reading this totally wrong.”

            He couldn’t quite follow what she was saying, so he did something that had worked in the past for him when dealing with the younger girls in Hogwarts. He reached for her hand.

            She jerked to a stop. He saw the hesitancy in her face and was relieved that he wasn’t the only one discomfited.

            “So…” his voice trailed off and in hopes of distracting himself from leering at her lips- and lower- he grasped around for something- anything- to say. “You speak Italian?”

            “Yeah.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

            Her tone was condescending. He felt his cheeks flush and the mortification that he barely kept at bay all evening rose up again. He wondered if this was it. She would finally call him out for being the source of all evil or something or other. Then he noted the twitching of her lips and the crinkling of the corners of her eyes.

            He threw her a withering expression. “Nerd.”

            Her snort rapidly grew into full blown laughter, so unlike the practiced musical titters common among their kind that Draco couldn’t help but join in the laughter himself.

            The way her eyes twinkled under the muggle street lamps took his breath away.

“Astoria.”

            He realized that it was the first time that he called her by name. Although in his mind, she was always Astoria, in public he had only used her surname.

            She shivered.

            He lifted his scarf from his neck and twined it around her own. His hand went from the scarf to her cheek to her lips and he felt a sudden rush of her breath against his palm as she sighed. As he captured her next sigh with his lips, he realized that it didn’t matter whether they were in Bellisima or in muggle London. What mattered was the feel of her lips, cool and slightly chapped but soft, so very soft, yielding gently to a hidden warmth.

             In the month afterwards, he learned that with him, she treated him exactly as how he presented himself to her, and that _she never assumed_ , not the way everyone else did. She never assumed that he had gotten off unfairly for his crime, never assumed that he had not repented, never assumed that the war had left him a broken excuse of a person incapable of human emotion aside from anger and bitterness and resentment.  The last, of course, was his assumption of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

  
_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
 _-Sonnet XVII_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

 

          He had always assumed that dates were about dressing up, going to grand places and being seen by the right people. All those pureblood witches his mother liked certainly implied that they should be.

          Dates with Astoria were completely different creatures. Sometimes she would insist they dress down and they would end up at some seedy wizarding establishment. Other times they would go to some muggle park to have picnics. The occasional times when they would go to a fine place, it would always be in muggle London.

          It was all so… _plebian._

          But what discomfited him more was the fact that Astoria never seemed fazed no matter how mundane their dates were. He didn’t know what troubled him more: that he did not know if this was her tastes or if she was merely adjusting to the fact that he might never be able to enter the right place or be seen by the right people.

          Then his doubts would always vanish when he took her to bed after. He liked how she never flinched when his arm, pale skin marred by the Dark Mark, would brush against her skin. He liked the way she shouted his name over and over in the final moments. He liked the exhaustion afterwards. It kept the nightmares at bay better than his old trusty Odgen’s- something that he could hardly afford nowadays.

***

          He was on his way out to spend the day with Astoria when his mother stopped him at the door.

          “You’ve been going out a lot these days.” Much to his chagrin, his mother combed back his hair with her fingers and straightened the shoulders of his shirt.

          “I have decided to look more closely into business, mother.” Draco knew the excuse was lame but the truth would lead to a lengthy conversation that would keep him in the house for hours.

          “Oh poor baby. Don’t worry, this hell is nearly over. Then we can get back our assets and hire as much help as we want.” She smiled at him. “You don’t have to tire yourself with this business.”

          Draco held his exasperation in check. “If I don’t look into the few remaining businesses that we have left, we won’t have any assets when this sentence is over.”

          “Well, your father also liked looking into the business himself.” Then patting his cheek she continued. “And I think you’re enjoying whatever you’re doing because I’ve never seen you so happy before. Not even when you were in Hogwarts. I’ve never seen you smile this much.”

          His mother’s words were ringing in his ears all the way to the Greengrass’ estate.

***

 

          Draco had been was dreading this day since Astoria had invited him two weeks ago to meet her family for luncheon.

          He should have been suspicious. She timed the conversation post coitus while he was still awash with the good natured feelings brought about by afterglow and she started it by asking what he was doing on the day. When he said that he didn’t have any definite plans, she casually mentioned the luncheon.

          His clever, clever girl.

          So here he was standing beneath the looming shadow of Astoria’s massive home, figuratively quaking in his boots. The last time he was this frightened was when his father brought him to Lord Voldemort, although the quaking at the time had been literal.

          Astoria’s home, called The Greengrass’ Estate according to the metal plaque hanging by the towering wrought iron gates- quite pompously, Draco thought which says something since he, _a Malfoy_ , found it so- was surprisingly bright and warm for a massive place.

          A contradiction to the greeting he received.

          “Draco.” Daphne’s tone could have started glaciers out of water vapor. It was really out of place in the pink and white themed parlor, with its abundance of floral prints and frothy lace embroidery.

          She pointedly remained seated at one such lace topped table and continued serving tea to Blaise Zabini, Daphne’s boyfriend according to Astoria. At least he had the decency to cross the room and shake Draco’s hand.

          “Blaise,” Draco greeted with some warmth. “Daphne,” he said next, through gritted teeth.

          “When Astoria spent less and less time at home, saying she needed to work, who knew what she was working on was you?” Daphne’s laugh was high pitched and brittle. “Now that I think of it, she always liked bringing home stray puppies.” Two splotches of color appeared on Blaise’s cheeks as he threw a pitying look his way.

          Draco bit his tongue harder.

          “So Draco,” Blaise cleared his throat, “what’s been keeping you busy, old chap?”

          Draco almost bit his tongue through and swallowed it. _Old chap? Really? Are you 80?_

          “Torturing little girls and Potter fans, likely,” Daphne sneered.

          Draco’s scathing reply was interrupted by a voice from the door.

          “As opposed to you torturing our guests with boring conversation?” Astoria strong stride carried her next to him. As she reached for his hand and clasped it tightly, he felt some of his anger melt away. “We should lend you to the MLEs. They could use you to bore confessions out of street thugs. By the way, Daphne, I don’t know why mother agreed to give you this room, but Trelawney wants her things back.”

          The quickly raised a napkin to his lips did nothing to muffle Zabini’s snort. The glare that Daphne gave the other man made Draco ponder Blaise’s mental health and he had to agree with the accuracy of Astoria’s description of _that_ relationship - _straight from one war into the next._

          As if sensing his mood, Astoria asked a house elf to bring in two glasses and a bottle of scotch.

          Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Really Astoria? At noontime?”

          “Yes Daphne, at noon time.” Astoria sighed before muttering under her breath something that Draco thought sounded like: _because you don’t really give me a choice._ He bit back a smirk and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

          Blaise however didn’t have any violent reactions to drinking at noon, because the moment Daphne turned her attention away, he had discretely asked Astoria to top his tea with some of the scotch.

          Daphne’s pre-luncheon entertainment seemed to reflect the course of the entire day, much to Draco’s misfortune.

***

          It started sometime midway through the soup course.

          “Astoria tells me you played Quidditch in school.” Astoria’s father stated, eying him cooly.

          “Yes sir,” Draco replied, grateful for the lack of quiver in his voice. “I was a seeker.”

          “Fat lot it did us!” Daphne returned with something that could only be described as malicious glee.

          “I see.” Mr. Greengrass leaned back as the soup vanished. “I guess asking about the Quidditch cup would just be impolite now, wouldn’t it?”

          This was followed by the main course.

          “Blaise here is in import/export. Very similar to my business. Hopefully a merger will be in the future.” Mr. Greengrass winked at his oldest daughter causing Blaise to blush and Daphne to beam like a debutant. Astoria started coughing incessantly. Draco patted her back lightly and over the wineglass he passed, he met her eyes. She looked torn between laughter and exasperation.

          “Astoria, is that ladylike?” Mrs. Greengrass’s censure was unmistakable. Daphne, if it were possible, glowed even more.

          “No mama,” Astoria returned evenly once she was able to speak again, although she remained a bit flushed. “I suppose choking to death is quite far from being ladylike. Don’t worry, it won’t cause you too much grief.”

          Draco had to admire her balls. Across from him Blaise’s eyes widened then covered this up by staring determinedly at his steak and potatoes.

          “So what is it you do?” Mr. Greengrass asked in between hearty bites of steak, talking loudly over the potential argument. Draco almost sighed in relief. It wasn’t such a bad question. In fact, considering how well the few remaining Malfoy businesses were doing with the current economic climate and with so few resources left to him after his father’s arrest, it was a way he could somehow prove himself to Astoria’s parents.

          “I wanted to focus on strengthening our assets,” Draco began, his polite smile not so false. He felt Astoria’s hand search for his under the table. He took it and weaved his fingers with hers. “If the market trend holds-“ 

          “-Really,” Mrs. Greengrass chided her husband. “Will you make _Draco_ more uncomfortable when you know a lot of their holdings were confiscated by the Ministry?” He felt Astoria tighten her grip and he took comfort in that. “Let’s talk about better things, shall we,” Mrs. Greengrass continued. “I just watched this wonderful play this month….”

          “How are you holding up?” Astoria whispered once her mother became too engrossed to notice. He was about to give a non committal answer when he turned to her and noticed that she was nervous. “Because I’m afraid they’ll say something that can never, never be taken back.”

          And it was with that statement that he realized, with an honesty that comes to people taken by surprise, that he loved her.

          The good feelings should have extended straight through the dessert of tea and sweet meringue cake despite the similar conversation but maybe he underestimated her parents’ disapproval.

          “How is your mother, Draco?” Mrs. Greengrass asked in between dainty bites of cake, most of which she merely pushed around her plate.

          “She is quite well, Mrs. Greengrass. Thank you for asking.” He believed that was a monumentally polite answer and resisted the urge to pat himself in the back. Next to him, he could see Astoria eyeing her mother warily.

          “It’s just that I don’t see her that often anymore.” Mrs. Greengrass licked some errant sugar from her lips before patting it with her napkin. “She wasn’t at the Parkinson’s tea or the Cedric Diggory memorial concert. I suppose she lost her taste for these events.”

          They both knew the reason wasn’t any lost interest for socializing.

          He felt his blood roaring in his ears, until sounds became muffled. He felt his face warm up and his vision blur at the edges. He didn’t think he had ever felt this humiliated before, not even when Moody transfigured him into that animal. But he supposed stakes were higher now. He didn’t want to disappoint Astoria.

          “Mama!” Astoria’s cry of outrage seemed so far away.

          It’s just that he wished Mrs. Greengrass had chosen another target. Himself or even his father he could have endured. But not his mother. For all of her faults, and he wasn’t blind to them, he wished Mrs. Greengrass wouldn’t talk about his mother.

          He looked at his half finished dessert and wondered how much more of this meal he had to endure. The answer, it turned out, was only as much as Astoria was willing to.

          “Oh,” Astoria said in surprise, and pulled her wand out of her pocket. “It vibrated. Seems there’s an emergency at St. Mungo’s and they want everybody there. Don’t worry papa, Draco can take me there.”

          Taking her lead, Draco feigned disappointment at the meal cut short.

          “What? It’s the weekend!” Daphne exclaimed.

          “Illnesses do not take weekends off,” Astoria’s voice was a little bit more cheerful than was polite. “Besides, more time for you and Blaise alone together.” 

          “I wish you would just quit that work!” Her mother muttered darkly.

          “Our daughter has a remarkable mind…” Her father’s voice was drowned out as they made their excuses quickly. If anybody noticed how come they opted to Disapparate outdoors rather than floo to the hospital, nobody commented on it.

***

          They ended up in front of her flat in Diagon Alley. Somehow, sometime in between their flimsy excuses to her family and their running escape out of her house, their foul mood had turned into laughter.

          They were still laughing riotously until they shut the door to her apartment behind them.

          Astoria recovered first. “Are you okay?”

          The question sobered Draco up.

_Okay? Not really._ At the end of the meal, Draco felt that he had been eaten up, chewed and spitted out.

          He wanted to go back to the laughter, to the shared escape, because now that it’s over, he’d have to face the truth: that her family, and perhaps the entire world, would never respect him. Maybe it was time to accept that there was no act that could atone for his past. Maybe reparation was an illusion.

          He couldn’t subject her to that, to being a half citizen in a society who will judge her by her association. She, who has done nothing, deserved better.

          For a time it was wonderful. Like the days he spent in some Muggle park with her, when he was uninteresting, anonymous, not ostracized. Or the nights he spent in her arms when he was a man rather than a former Death Eater. When he was with her, he felt like he was more than his wasted past and that his future stretched out before him with a million choices, each brighter than the next and where fear has no place.

          But it was an illusion, beautiful and unattainable, and the time has come for him to let it go.

          “So we still have an entire afternoon.” Astoria pulled him to her couch. “What do you think we could do?” Her smile was sweet and suggestive.

          “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better if I go home,” Draco said softly. He stared at her coffee table. Refused to meet her eyes.

          “Talk to me.” Astoria’s voice was thready and so unlike her.

          His answering smile was only a movement of muscles, mechanical and didn’t reach his eyes.

          “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He kissed her forehead and each of her eyes closed. He didn’t want to see her thoughts reflected in them.

          “Promise?” Her voice was a whisper, as if she already knew and dared not to hope.

          He left without answering.

          He didn’t talk to her tomorrow, or the next day, or the days after that. He didn’t respond to her mail. He didn’t answer the door when she went to Malfoy Manor. He let her stand there for the whole of thirty minutes as he stood just on the other side, his palm against the door while he imagined the warmth of her cheek beneath it.

          The yearning was unbearable. But he was doing it for her. It was probably the most selfless thing he has ever done in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

_I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving  
But this…  
-Sonnet XVII _ from _100 love sonnets,_ **Pablo Neruda**

           

          On the first month after they broke up, he had taken to passing by St. Mungo’s on the way to Gringotts and he always did so around the time trainee healers clocked in.

          Months back, the Prophet had published a series of articles regarding untoward “incidents” involving early morning and late evening travelers. Most were befuddled and robbed, but a few were subjected to acts of humiliation, found naked and gagged in public places.

          Since then he had always felt it unsafe for her and when they were together, more often than not, he would walk her to work.

          A group had claimed responsibility for the act and while they remained unnamed, they signed their work with a stylized skull with a snake tongue. Draco wondered if they were Death Eater wannabes because he doubted they were actual Death Eaters. Most of the higher ups were in Azkaban and the lower ranking members were either serving out sentences like his own or were being meticulously watched.

          Now that they were apart, he had taken to waiting behind the corners of the buildings that bordered St. Mungo’s, eyeing the warlocks and vagabonds that littered the street. Until the doors of St. Mungo’s closed behind her, ensuring her safety, his apprehension boiled over.

          Then she would walk down the street and up the steps of the hospital. And suddenly, the grip around his heart would ease, as if those quick looks were exhales and he had held his breath in anxiety.

          She looked well so he was happy- if happy was the term for it- even if that meant that he was the only one falling apart.

* * *

 

          On the third month after their break-up, a large, tawny, barn owl carrying a letter with an official looking seal arrived at the manor.

          The next day, in what was supposed to be one of the best of his life, he made his way to the Ministry.

          He steeled himself against the stares. He avoided public offices for this reason, which post-Dark Lord, were littered with the most loyal of Dumbledore’s allies. The clock tower incident was unlikely to be forgotten. To his surprise, he was mainly ignored and the Ministry workers walked around looking harassed, morose and indifferent to everyone but their bosses.

          At the designated MLE office, a pimply man a couple years younger than him, reading some smutty magazine barely looked up at Draco, but he moved his fingers like he was asking for the bill and pointed a finger on the counter.

          Not even bothering with a greeting, Draco dropped the letter on the counter. The clerk, reluctant to look away from the picture of the buxom witch pleasuring herself, read the note with a slightly pissed expression.

          He returned with a box marked _evidence_.

          Draco was struck by the thought that for two years, this day was supposed to be monumental. In reality, it was all so ordinary. Another claimed box of evidence, another Apparition license renewed, another ban lifted.

***

          When Draco arrived home, Malfoy Manor was as dead as the Bloody Baron and twice as quiet.

          “Mistress is visiting Master,” their house elf squeaked.

          A wave of blackness rose up in him and it took him awhile to identify it as resentment. He tried to justify the feeling: He admired the fact that his dainty mother braved Azkaban weekly, occasionally twice weekly, to visit his father. But his mother knew his sentence was ending today. She could have visited tomorrow. They were supposed to be celebrating.

          His resentment towards Narcissa vanished the moment he approached his desk in the library which now doubled as his office. On top of the business documents was a letter with his name written in a neat, recognizable cursive.

***

          It was nearly seven.

          Draco tapped his foot as he waited at the bottom step of St. Mungo’s. It wasn’t impatience. Nervousness. Excitement. Anticipation. Maybe even a little fear. But not impatience.

          Her letter burned a hole inside his coat.

 

_Today’s the day. Congratulations! You must be excited. It’s a great achievement that you completed your sentence without breaking the law. I’m very proud of you. But more importantly, you should be proud of yourself._

          She had addressed the letter: _Yours, Astoria._ There was a visceral ache in his chest as he hoped that she was still his.

          He adjusted the collar of his silk shirt, centered his tie and checked to make sure the creases of his pants were sharp. He had made reservations at this elegant Muggle restaurant that she had mentioned before that she wanted to try.

          She stepped out of the hospital with her high ponytail coming loose, her glasses perched low on her nose, and a big, toothy grin on her face. In actuality, she looked like an overworked librarian who had just won a gift certificate from Flourish and Blotts, yet Draco felt his breath hitch.

          She was perfect.

          Then she turned towards the person next to her. The tall, chiseled, dark haired man wearing the same trainee healer’s clothes had his hand low on her back and his head bent close to hers. An invasion of personal space, if Draco were to judge, but Astoria didn’t seem to mind.

          Draco felt like an idiot. He tore the tie from his neck. A poor substitute for what he wanted to rent asunder- the heavy weight in his chest.

          He had hoped. He had assumed when he knew better. He knew that she didn’t assume, didn’t color her words with hidden meanings. He knew now that she wrote that letter for the exact reason that she said: she was happy for him and she was proud of him and she simply wanted him to know.

          With a crack he was gone and in the wake of his disappeared shadow was a bouquet of roses, its white blooms crushed underfoot.

***

          Astoria’s letter fed the fireplace, an offering of anger. He watched as the flames drew closer and a corner of the parchment warped in the heat. Then before he could second guess himself, he retrieved the letter, smoothed it out and pocketed it.

          It was past supper time when his mother found him in the library, a glass balanced on the arm of his chair and a bottle of firewhiskey by his feet.

          “Have you eaten?” Narcissa’s voice a rope through the haze of his intoxication.

          “Have you?” Draco returned sullenly. “Don’t tell me Azkaban serves guests now,” In a day that proved that nobody cared for him, his earlier resentment towards her returned.

          “What are you trying to say, Draco?” Through the bogginess of his mind, Draco barely registered his mother’s sharp eyes and equally cutting words. “I’d like you to remember that while I am your mother, I am also his wife.”

          His head dropped into his hands of its own accord, weary in body and in heart.

          “Why today, mother? You knew what today was. Why today?”

          When she spoke, he knew without looking up that she had stepped next to him, even before her hands threaded gently into his hair.

          “Because today you are finally free, Draco. And he is not. And he will not be for a very long time.” Narcissa tilted his head up. “He needed me today.

          “I needed you too.”

          “Yes Draco, but you needed me to share something happy with you and we will have the rest of our days to celebrate. But today your father felt hopeless and alone and I couldn’t bear that. Someday when you meet the woman you would want to marry you will feel the need to give everything of yourself. Sometimes even beyond that.”

          Narcissa sighed and pulled a chair next to him.

          “I am so sorry I am not a better mother, Draco. What I’m going to tell you, it’s not an excuse. But maybe you would understand.

          “When we were all younger, your Aunt Bellatrix, my other sister Andromeda and I were sent to polishing school. Bellatrix did everything perfectly and with ease but that was typical of her, being the eldest and the heir. Andromeda hated it and took every opportunity to sneak out and avoid lessons. But I, I may have struggled but I loved every minute of it. I didn’t have the same ease of your Aunt Bella, but I loved the painting and the language lessons. But most of all I loved the dancing.

          I had wanted to become a ballet dancer. So I practiced as hard as I could. And part of the dream was to run away and marry my dance partner and join the Russian troupe and tour the world. Then I met your father and I forgot all about the Russian troupe and my imaginary dance partner. But not the dancing.”

          “No?” Drao never knew this about his mother. He tried to imagine her as the laughing, dancing, wild child. Something shifted inside him.

          It was a common enough practice to marry out of duty to bloodlines, but he was hit by the conviction that he didn’t want to know if his parents’ marriage was such. Part of him wished that they had married for love.

          He realized that months ago, before Astoria, he wouldn’t think like this.

          “No, my Draco.” Narcissa continued. “At first I pined away in silence. He was meant for Andromeda and I knew that our parents were already making arrangements. So I kept my feelings hidden. Then Andromeda eloped with that mud- muggle. Suddenly I had a chance. Then talks turned to us marrying.

          I knew from the start that he wasn’t the dancing type of man. I knew that marrying him would mean that I would give up dancing. But I loved your father. Very much. And the Black family name was enough to convince him to marry me.”

          In the months after the war, Draco had spent a lot of time thinking. One of the conclusions that he arrived at was his father did not deserve his mother, and considering the way Lucius gave their home for the Dark Lord to use, he also did not deserve a family.

          At first, Draco thought it was an honor. Then the werewolf and his pack polluted their rooms with his vile manners and poor hygiene. Then the Dark Lord started placing them under the Imperius for brief stretches of time. Then there were the screams in the middle of the night and the wails that kept him from sleeping, all coming from the cellar. And his father knew all about this, and he still volunteered their house, the one place a person was supposed to feel safe.

          He never thought that his mother craved and felt insecure about his father’s affections for her.

          “He doesn’t deserve you. Not the other way around.”

          “No, Draco. Don’t say that.” She tightened her grip on his arm and sighed. “He loves me.”

          “But you just said-“

          “Yes, but over the years he has proved that he does. Maybe he learned to along the way. I don’t know. But I know that he loves me. He loves you too. I remember very clearly the look on his face when I told him I was pregnant, then his happiness the first time he held you. There are times when I wish he was a better father to you, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Sometimes bad acts have good intentions. What I’m saying Draco is this: He treats you this way because that was the way his father treated him and your father doesn’t know any better. But that does not mean he doesn’t love you. That’s just who he is. And I can’t love him any less because of it.”

_That still does not give him the right to do all of those things._ But Draco kept that to himself.

          “You see Draco, sometimes we cannot choose who we love.”

          And that was what silenced all the angry voices in his head. Because _that_ he understood.

           They sat silently like that for some time, with Narcissa occasionally taking sips from his glass of firewhiskey.

          “Where did you go?”

          “Out,” Draco replied tersely.

          “Ah,” Narcissa said but didn’t add to that. He had forgotten how perceptive her mother was when he was younger and he used to play Quidditch in her rose garden despite being told not to.

          His mother gave him a small smile and ruffled the hair at his nape.

          “Well, that’s a nice shirt, Draco. When you take it off, don’t wad it in a ball. You can destroy silk when you crumple it like that.” She smoothed out the wrinkles on his shoulder then stood to leave.

          “Mother.”

          Narcissa stopped and turned.

          Draco stretched out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

* * *

 

          It was in the fourth month of their break up when he bumped into Daphne in Twilfitt and Tatting's. He had just entered the store when she stepped out of the fitting room and it took a moment before he realized what she was wearing. Swathed in several yards of white lace and tulle, Draco thought she looked like the talking wedding cake he once saw. All towering and blindingly white and quite hefty at the base.

          “Draco.” Her tone was as smug and icy as ever.

          “Daphne,” he returned in a bland tone while he revised his sentiment. A talking sheep, more like. While fluffy in white lace, there was a bleating, nasal tone to her voice.

          “I suppose you would be available on my wedding. Not that there would be many social events in your calendar. Blaise insisted, you see.”

          But before he could open his mouth, Daphne continued. “I asked Astoria, naturally if it would be all right.” Daphne’s smile widened. “You know what she did?”

          Draco waited for her to continue but it seemed she was waiting for him to fish for the information. Gritting his teeth he asked, “what?”

          “She shrugged.” Daphne tittered. “Just like that, shrugged. Of course Rodolfo would be going with her. Oh our parents are so happy about them. You know Rodolfo of the Ciano’s of Italy. Related to a Marchese. You know how all those Italian nobilities are magical.”

          He knew it would happen at some point. Maybe that was the healer she was laughing with months ago. But the actual knowledge was bitter in his mouth. Draco opted to shrug, not trusting his control over his temper, and even that action seemed strained. When the saleswitch approached him, he gratefully excused himself.

***

          Five months after their break-up, a scroll was delivered to Malfoy Manor. It was white, inlaid with silver trim and decked with satin ribbons and lace. It said: _You are cordially invited to the Zabini-Greengrass Nuptials._

          The thought of Astoria, dressed in a ball gown dancing with some dark eyed Italian nobleman was enough to turn him broody and he had already written a carefully worded refusal when his mother started moping around the Manor.

          It would seem that his father had been cold to her during her last visit, making Draco suspect some newly developed condition, some form of depression and he was half tempted to tell his mother to just force feed his father pepper up potion by the bucketful. But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Not after that night months ago. She loved his father and he understood choosing what was best for a loved one over one’s own happiness.

          So he asked his mother to come with him instead and bought her a French designer dress for the occasion. The way his mother kept on stroking the fabric for days before the wedding was the only thing that lightened his mood. At least one of them would be happy attending this wedding.

***

          Draco straightened his tie absentmindedly as he trailed his gaze around the room. Daphne and Blaise were dancing and wearing wide smiles. His mother seemed safe enough despite keeping company with vultures that a few months ago were gossiping about her. He tensed a bit, deliberating whether he should rescue her from the group but when she laughed, he felt the tension in his chest ease a bit.

          Then his eyes landed on Astoria.

          The whole evening, he tried to avoid looking in her direction but his gaze was drawn back to her, again and again, until he finally gave up on the futility of the act.

          He wanted to talk to her, to hold her in his arms, to dance and to laugh with her but all he had left were furtive glances in her direction. Unless he acted in an abominable manner, desperation his only excuse.

***

          He shouldn’t have done it, but pain makes one self destructive in unexpected ways.

          They were back in the place where it all started, on the balcony of the Greengrass Estate. He had managed it most ungentlemanly, by practically dragging her along and had it not been for the distraction that Potter’s attendance had created, he would not have managed it at all.

          He hated it, but he was once again indebted to the git.

          She fought him all the way to the balcony and it had colored her cheeks and darkened her eyes. He had once thought that she was attractive but was not quite as beautiful as Daphne. How wrong he had been. Even angry, she mesmerized him.

          His hand unconsciously moved to touch her lips and was halfway there before he realized it. He changed its trajectory and locked the sliding doors behind them instead.

          She eyed him suspiciously and despite the sliding glass doors and the potted plants that managed to hide them, Draco felt unbearably naked.    

          She raised her eyebrow in an unspoken question. She had no intention to start this.

          “I got your letter two months ago. About my wand,” he clarified. “Thank you.”

          “Oh, you wanted to talk about that.” Her face was expressionless and he wondered if there really was none or she purposely kept it that way. “You’re welcome.”

          Then she turned away from him and had the doors partially opened when she suddenly dropped her head.

          “Did you read it?”

          “Yes.”

          Her hand froze over the handle. But when she finally faced him, she refused to meet his eyes.

          “And the others?”

          “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

          They stood immobile, unspeaking, for a moment weighed down by the air laden with words unsaid.

          Then she shrugged her beautiful Gallic shrug. “You never responded to any of them.”

          What was he to say?

          Instead of answering, he asked the question that had been bothering him since meeting Daphne months ago.

          “You and that guy seem to be enjoying yourselves.” Draco knew he sounded bitter and realized that he couldn’t disguise it even if he wanted to.

          Her eyes narrowed. “If there is an accusation there somewhere, Draco, I prefer you own up to it.”

          “Do you love him?” He ground out the words.

          “That’s none of your business.”

          “Did you-“ he looked away and took a deep breath. He lost everything, including a big chunk of his pride. He wasn’t planning on losing it so completely that it would become unsalvageable.

          They never said I love you to each other. And he knew that he lost the right when he gave her up. Except that now he had to give her up to another man. And before he could do that gracefully, he _needed_ to know that what they had was real.

          Her hand reached for his cheek and she turned his face towards her.

          “Did I love you? Is that what you meant to ask?” She met his eyes head on. Her question was without preamble. _His_ incredibly brave Astoria. He had to stop associating her with possessive pronouns.

          The solemnity of her gaze struck him mute and he wondered if his grief showed on his face.

          She dropped her hand and looked over her shoulder. Behind her, in the distance, Ciano was talking to her parents. Mr. Greengrass was patting his shoulder; Mrs. Greengrass had a smile as wide as the Great Hall in Hogwarts.

          She deserved that kind of man and Draco never felt smaller in his entire life.

          “Is there even a point to this?” She sounded plaintive. “I wrote you so many letters and you could not even be bothered to explain. I….” She shook her head, as if steeling herself and what Draco realized was that she was steeling herself against him. This was what they had come to- that she needed to choose her words around him.

          “You made your choice, Draco. We both know you’ve lost the right to find out who I love.” Her voice had turned resolute. Then she walked away.

          With a faint click, the glass doors closed with an echoing finality.


	5. Chapter 5

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: 

I wavered through the streets, among  
Objects:   
Nothing mattered or had a name:   
The world was made of air, which waited.  
  
I knew rooms full of ashes, 

_-Sonnet XXV_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

           

            A walking dreamer.

            Except in his case the dream was a nightmare.

            After the wedding, after the talk in the balcony, dreaming was the perfect description for Draco’s listless motions in the haze that he called his life. It was one thing to not be with her but another to finally see her with someone else. And after that, nothing seemed worth doing anymore.

            His mother noticed that he had seemingly checked out on life but she mostly kept her peace. Whether it was from some female intuition or from motherly wisdom, she did not ask questions, tried not to pry and only mentioned briefly that things will get better.

            He certainly wished it was so because while he was waiting for the oblivion of numbness and mindlessness brought about by a degree of hopelessness, he was not there yet. Everywhere, everything reminded him of her.

            Even in the middle of a walk through Diagon Alley towards Gringotts, his mind was on _her_.

            So when the bastard’s fist connected with his jaw, Draco attributed the successful punch to his perpetually distracted state. Also to his slight complacency ever since he got his wand back.

            “You arse!” Draco shouted- among other things- and the rest of his curses turned the air blue around him.

            The man who hit him, the owner of a small potions stall in Diagon Alley, loomed over Draco’s prostate form and spat in his direction.

            “That’s bloody rich coming from you, bloody Death Eater! Bloody wanker!” The Arse- which was what Draco called the stall owner in his mind- waved his wand around menacingly. “Tell your friends to bloody stop what they’re doing,” the man shouted. “Harassing us for money. You think I’m afraid of your kind. I won’t give you a bloody knut. I already complained to the MLEs. Pass by here again and they’ll send you to Azkaban with your father.”

            Draco picked himself up from the street and brushed his robes with as much dignity as he could muster. Then he gave the man a disdainful look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He sneered. “I’m not doing anything. And keep your knut. I don’t plan on patronizing this stall.”

           “Don’t play dumb, Death Eater. You’re friends have been harassing us honest businesswizards, painting our stalls with that… that bloody symbol. You-“ the man jabbed his wand against Draco’s front- “should have died when He-who-must-not-be-named did. You don’t deserve to be alive.”

           Draco felt his face turn hot; he felt a curse, one of the Unforgivables, forming instinctively on the tip of his tongue. His arm rose of its own volition, the faint scar on his forearm tingled with his intent. He remembered McLaggen at The Leaky Cauldron, the maître d’ at Bellisima and the hundreds of other people who talked down to him in the last two years.

           Then he thought of Astoria. Of how disappointed she would be.

           He struggled to keep his arm at his side, knuckles white with grasping, nails biting into his palm. Around them, a crowd had formed and they were silently choosing sides. Based on the little he could make out from the hushed murmurs, Draco did not feel optimistic.

           “Sir,” Draco gritted out, “put your wand back in your pocket before I’m forced to defend myself.”

           The man’s face turned purple, his words almost incoherent with rage. “Are you threatening me, Death Eater?”

           “No,” Draco replied tersely. “And I didn’t _do anything._ But I’m going to turn around and leave before your rudeness forces me to _do something.”_

           Behind him, Draco heard the man shout. “You bloody Death Eater. Disrespecting me like this. Impedimenta!”

           All of a sudden, the world shifted around Draco. The sky was directly in his line of vision and the cobblestones were a mat behind his back.

           Instinct crept in. Draco found himself on his feet with his wand out.

           “Cru-“ Draco began.

           Then he stopped himself. A wave of coldness passed through his body from head to foot as if a stiff arctic breeze had blown in his direction, as if a block of ice was passed through his body. He felt a chill so dire that it burned at the same time and he recognized the feeling for what it was, a visceral manifestation of anger, of shame and fear and a hint of excitement that called out to his early ambitions for power. Ambitions that he had before he realized the cost.

           The feeling was both a warning and a reminder. Draco returned his wand in his pocket, a stand against temptation.

           “See! See!” The man turned to the crowd in triumph. “He plans to use an Unforgivable on me. Bloody Death Eater. Throw him in Azkaban!”

           Draco growled in frustrated impotence.

           “Vulnera Sanetur,” the man shouted and his self righteous tone was the last Draco heard before his vision grew dark.

***

            “…the curse was badly aimed.”

            “Badly casted, too….”

            “…should come to any moment now.”

            As if rehearsed, Draco opened his eyes. He blinked a few times before the whiteness solidified into people and furniture- healers and nurses, beds and side tables stocked with potion bottles and goblets.

            “Good work, Healer Greengrass. A serviceably executed reversal spell, although you’re wand-waving needs some work.” The man’s voice came from Draco’s right and he followed it to a grizzled old wizard whose beard was so long it dragged against the bed Draco was lying on and tickled his arm. The old man was wearing the long sleeved black robe of a Master Healer.

            “Thank you sir,” Astoria politely murmured. Her tightly gripped wand hovered over his prone form, its tip was glowing blue- a diagnostic spell in progress.

            The Master Healer peered over his glasses at the group. “Who can tell me the five spells that can be reversed by the expungio spell that Healer Greengrass just casted?”

            Around him, some of the trainee healers frantically riffled the parchments they were carrying while others prodded him with their wand tips, pretending fascination, just to avoid making eye contact with the Master Healer.

            Draco felt like an object, a feast laid on a table, left to spoil.

            “Vulnera Sanetur”

            “Obviously, that was what the Death Eater piece of shite was hit with,” one of the healers mumbled under his breath.

             Blood rushed to Draco’s head. There was that name again! It had been true once, but he had left that truth in the past and this time he had done nothing.

             Yet these people were treating him as if his entire being was made up of a youthful misjudgment, a single time in his life when his acts were determined by a misplaced desire for his father’s approval.

             But the painful reality was that a part of Draco secretly agreed with him, that perhaps that was all he was- a former Death Eater, not even a high ranking one at that; a grunt. Even in his error, he wasn’t able to be worth more than a scared little child bullied into it by his father.

             He struggled to sit up, wanting to get a closer look at the Trainee Healer who called him a piece of shite.

             All of a sudden, a cool hand touched his arm. There was a tingling at the tangent of their skins and he knew, just knew that he would recognize that touch anywhere and anytime and his eyes were drawn to the owner.

             Astoria’s eyes were dark, her brow furrowed. She shook her head slightly.

             Draco frowned.

             “He is still a patient.” Astoria met the eyes of the Trainee Healer who insulted Draco. “Hippocratic Oath means we treat him fairly. You want to pass judgment apply for a seat in the Wizengamot.”

             The Master Healer cleared his throat. “Despite my agreement with Healer Greengrass and as much as Healer Ethics is a part of your training, I suggest we get back to the case at hand. Before I start giving demerits.”

             The group of trainee healers shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

             At the end of his bed, another trainee healer spoke up timidly: “ _Mutilato Skullus_.”

             Then another followed. “slug spewing curse”

             “Hema Venatur”

             “No, it’s Hema _Vulnatur_. Just sounds similar. ”

             “That is correct, Healer Ciano,” The Master Healer praised. “See the necessity of getting the spell exactly right. Healer Ciano, what reverses Hema Venatur.”

             “ _Finite Incatatem._ ”

             The Master smiled. “Remember that Healers.”

             The scratching of self inking quills on parchment grew louder.

_Of course Rodolfo bloody Ciano related to a bloody Italian Marchese would get it._

            “I have only heard four spells,” the Master prodded.

            “bat bogey hex?” One of the trainee healers called out tentatively, then beamed when there was no objection forthcoming.

            “Very good. Commendable work today, Healer Greengrass.” The Master Healer had moved away from the group, “What’s the next case?”

            He gripped her arm in desperation, preventing her from following the group. From leaving him completely. For a moment, they stared at each other.

_I miss you. I want you. I need you._

            The words echoed in his head but his tongue felt stiff and thick in his mouth. Silent.

            Just as his hand slackened on her sleeve, she spoke. “Master, I wish to conduct a few more diagnostic spells.”

           “Very well, Greengrass. Finish your spell quickly, then try to catch up.” The Master Healer’s voice trailed off as the group progressed to the next victim of teaching rounds.

           “Yes?” Astoria said impatiently all the while glancing at the disappearing backs of her colleagues.

_I miss you. I want you. I need you._

           “Thank you,” was what he said instead.

           “Part of the job,” she replied curtly. “If there’s nothing else-“

           BOOM!

           The door to the ward burst open, leaving scorch marks around the frame and surprising Draco into a sitting position. Just as shocked as Draco was, the rest of the patients and healers stopped to watch as The Arse- the businesswizard who cursed him- stormed in and shook off the orderly who was barely hanging on to his arm.

           “There he is!” The man shouted, hair in disarray, spittle flying from his mouth. His wand was drawn and pointed at Draco. Red and green lights flew from the end, and wherever the sparks touched black singe marks spread.

            “I can’t believe they brought you here! You bloody fuck! You don’t deserve care!”

            The man looked away from Draco and it took a moment before he realized where the businesswizard eyes rested.

            Astoria.

            Draco felt his hands shake and his heart thump when the realization came. The madman busnesswizard was addressing Astoria as his wand waved back and forth between them.

             Propelled by the baseline of his heart, Draco flew from sitting on the bed to standing next to it. His wand was raised in one hand while with the other, he groped for Astoria and pushed her roughly behind him. They may have all survived the war, and she may be a brilliant healer but he did not know if Astoria had dueling skills.

             Fear. Almost unbearable fear filled Draco’s heart; he did not have any experience to compare this fear to. It was even worse than the feeling he experienced when the Dark Lord made him kneel. Behind him, Astoria was shuddering against his back.

            “How can you help him?” The man ranted to Astoria. “He’s a piece of shit. Lower than worms.”

            His wand was pouring a steady stream of sparks; the floor around him had spreading burn marks.

            Patients had migrated to the edges of the ward, away from Draco, the businesswizard and Astoria, while those who were bedbound started crying. Some of the braver trainee healers were organizing the patients into a semblance of calm.

            Part of the floor had disintegrated into ash and had already fallen away. Draco wanted to cast a counter spell but was afraid that any small movement from him, any sound from him might trigger a more violent reaction from the man. So Draco remained where he was, wand at the ready to cast a counter spell once the man did something that harmed more than just hospital property.

            Then healers, nurses and guards streamed through the broken door, wands out.

            “Gentlemen, this is a hospital not a dueling ring. I suggest you put your wands down,” a tall, broad, black man wearing the robes of a Master Healer boomed. “I will not have patients’ hearts give out because of all of this excitement.”

            “Draco,” Astoria whispered behind him. “Please.”

            “I will not put my wand down until he does,” Draco shouted. “He could hit Astoria before you subdue him.”

            “You’re making me into the bad guy,” the man’s voice wavered. “My wife. Two years ago, we were living quietly when bloody Death Eaters attack my wife. And you! You bloody fucking Death Eater make _ME_ into the bad guy!” The man started laughing, a harsh braying sound, almost inhuman and his hand fell limply to his side as he gradually sank to the ground. 

            Draco slowly lowered his wand. His eyes were heavy and burned with tears.

            “They curse my wife with some dark spell and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. She can’t be admitted into St. Mungo’s because she’s muggle and the muggle doctors were baffled. Do you know how it feels like to lose the person you love the most and not be able to do anything? And him-“ the man pointed at Draco- “bloody stupid Death Eater gets cured. There’s no justice. No justice at all.”

_He was right,_ Draco thought. A big part of him agreed with the man.

            Numb, Draco watched as they cast a sedating spell on the man and levitated him out of the room.

            Once the man was gone, Draco pulled Astoria into an embrace, his arms unbearably tight around her and he shut his eyes against all light and sound and the rest of the world until all that was left was the scent and feel and weight of her in his arms.

            “Astoria, Astoria, Astoria,” he murmured again and again, like a prayer for her protection.

            Suddenly, she was being pulled from his arms. Draco opened his eyes and saw that Rodolfo Ciano his hands on her shoulders and was talking frantically.

            “Astoria, are you okay? I was so worried. You should take the rest of the day off.”

             Draco watched as Astoria lifted her hand to Rodolfo’s face. “I’m fine Rodolfo. A bit shaken but I’m fine. Thank you.”

             It hurt, and he knew he should give them privacy but Draco couldn’t look away. It was like being in the sixth year again when he had to kill Dumbledore, and there was that paralyzing feeling of hopelessness that was his constant companion. As the other healers moved towards Astoria, Draco slowly backed away, forgotten.

             A hand on his arm jolted him.

             It belonged to a nurse. “Mr. Malfoy, we’ve decided to move you to a more private room,” she said in a no nonsense manner. They were at the end of the ward when the nurse gave the black marks on the floor a reproachful look and muttered: “It might be the best for everybody around.”

             Guilt once again bloomed in Draco, his other constant companion.

***

 

             Draco was an hour in the new, private room when he asked to be discharged against the healer’s advice. On his way out, ignoring the censure of the head nurse as he insisted to be allowed to leave St. Mungo’s, he asked about the businessman who cursed him.

             “He’s being sedated and being kept in a private room. Relatives only.” the nurse replied in a cold and suspicious tone.

             “I just want to know if he’s okay,” Draco said curtly, reacting mostly to her attitude rather than from any malice on his part.

             “He’s fine. And if you’re really concerned, so are the other patients in that ward, _Mr. Malfoy._ ” The sneer in her voice evident.

             Draco clenched and unclenched his fist as he counted to ten. Then attempting to ignore the whispers around him, he barely managed to walk out of St. Mungo’s with head held high.

 

* * *

 

             The townhouse was situated in a posh area of muggle London. It had a communal garden, complete with wrought iron benches and a fountain, shared with the surrounding townhouses. It was even a few blocks away from a park.

            It was charming and quiet and quaint, and Draco supposed that after six months in a magical coma and after fighting in the war, she would want to live in a place like this.

            The door had barely opened when he found himself being pulled into the townhouse. In less than a minute, he was sprawled in the front hall, in a full body bind and his wand in the hands of his attacker.

             He wanted to blame the recent curse. He should have waited a few days to recover instead of going here directly. It was easier to blame the curse than his stupidity and complacency.

             He could not move, not even to crane his neck and it was only when the person stepped into his line of vision did he see.

             Katie Bell stood in front of him, breathing heavily, wand outstretched.

_Dammit Bell!_ He wanted to shout but his lips were made immobile by the full body bind.

            “Katie?” A male voice called from somewhere upstairs. A familiar voice although Draco could not place it.

            “Katie.” The voice sounded louder and the footsteps told Draco its owner was making his way down the stairs.

            “In the hall,” Bell called back, her breathing finally even.

            “There you…” the voice trailed off as its owner finally reached the bottom of the stairs. “Malfoy….”

            Draco would have widened his eyes if he could actually move.

            Stepping beside Katie Bell was Marcus Flint, his old Slytherin housemate and quidditch captain and currently a first string chaser for Falmouth.

            Draco’s eyeball moved frantically as he took in the scene before him. Dressed in jogging pants and a shirt clinging to his wet chest and with a towel slung over his shoulders, Flint had obviously just come out of the shower. And with her hair disheveled and wearing an oversized black and white quidditch shirt of the Falcons that ended mid thigh, Bell had obviously just stepped out of bed. Draco would bet his entire fortune that if she turned around, he would see Flint’s name and number on the back.

_Bell and Flint._

_Bloody hell!_

            Draco watched as Flint turned towards Bell and very gently pried Draco’s wand from her hands. Bell whispered something in return, her brows wrinkling into a frown; in reply, Flint shook his head and whispered something into her ear. After engaging in a staring contest with Bell, Flint tilted his head in the direction of the stairs. Bell threw her hands in the air and huffed loudly but headed up the stairs.

            Draco was right; the Falcons shirt did say Flint on the back.

            Once she was gone, Flint reversed the spell.

            “What the fuck, Malfoy!” Flint spat out as Draco regained his two feet.

            “I just…” Draco stared at Flint uncomfortably. He was no longer a child playing under Flint’s team, but professional quidditch had turned the guy into a block of muscle and he was probably double Draco’s weight.

             Flint shook his head and headed for the door. Sweeping his hand in a mockery of chivalry, he said, “outside Malfoy. After you.”

             Once out the door, Flint transfigured his robes into muggle clothing, and remained silent all throughout the walk to the muggle park a few blocks away. They passed houses decorated for Halloween. Muggle houses, Draco supposed because the cut-out ghosts and vampires were completely off the mark.

             A cool gust blew against them, heralding the oncoming winter and Draco pulled his denim jacket (transfigured from his robes) tighter around him. Flint, who had been dripping wet and wearing a soaking shirt in his front hall, walked straight on, impervious to the weather. Rigorous quidditch training must have done that to the guy. And it wasn’t lost on Draco that Flint hasn’t returned his wand yet.

             The park was mostly empty, probably due to the temperature. Draco allowed himself to be steered to a copse of trees and waited patiently while Flint lit up a cigarette.

             After a few puffs, Flint raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?”

             Draco knew he should have gone directly to the point but really, the elephant in the room could hardly be ignored. “You and Bell?

             “Working for the gossip rags now, mate,” Flint retorted, tone sarcastic.

             “Don’t tell me you were getting it on in school?” Draco asked.

             Flint’s eyes narrowed. “Still a swotty idiot, Malfoy? It’s been how long since you’ve left Hogwarts? She’s four years younger than me. She’d have been a minor when I was in Hogwarts.”

             Draco shook his head. “No I just didn’t expect….” He really didn’t

             Flint snorted then shook his head. “Houses? Gryffindor and Slytherin? That’s school. The world is bigger than Hogwarts.”

             “I guess I’m just surprised,” Draco explained. “There are pictures of you in the paper. All those witches.”

             Flint shrugged. “Being a quidditch player, people read a few things here and there and they think they know everything there is to know about you. Nothing’s happening with all those witches and if the papers focus on them, nobody pays attention on me and Katie. We like it that way.”

             Now Draco was really curious. “How come?”

             “Think Malfoy. Katie’s a sports reporter. I’m a quidditch player. Use your brains. When the Falcons get a good write-up, people will think it’s because she’s sleeping with the team’s chaser.”

             “It _is_ a conflict of interest,” Draco said.

             “And that’s exactly why it’s nobody’s fucking business,” Flint replied wryly. “People are fucking judgmental and usually wrong. You saw Katie’s write-up of the last Falcons-Harpies match? Tore us to pieces. Had to put extra wards up, I was afraid Hodgens would storm her. And she wrote the damn thing next to me in bed. Didn’t even let me see the draft. No heads up. Imagine my surprise when I read it the next day.”

             That stopped Draco. Flint’s words may be of irritation, but his tone and expression told Draco that he was mostly amused.

             “So what do you want, Draco?”

             “I…” he paused for a breath. He felt his face flush. He knew his reasons for rushing here once he figured out where here was, straight out of St. Mungo’s, but somehow voicing out the words felt like a punch in the gut.

             “I wanted to,” Draco mumbled, forcing the words. “I don’t know if you’ve heard because you weren’t in Hogwarts anymore. But Voldemort ordered me. There was this necklace and-“

             “I know about the necklace,” Flint interrupted, cigarette dangling from his fingers, forgotten. “You want to get to the point?”

             “Right, Bell must have told you,” Draco said, as realization set in. If Flint knew about the necklace, if Bell told him, then it meant some intimacy between them, and not just the fucking kind. “You see, I wanted to make amends to her.”

             Flint stared at him, eyes hooded, brows drawn together. Then he butted out the cigarette, his movements deliberately slow, before he finally spoke. “Why?”

             “Why?” Draco echoed, feeling out of sorts. “Because she had a bad time of it and I hurt her!”

             “Bad. Time. Of. It.” Flint repeated the words under his breath. “Fucking understatement.” Then shaking his head, Flint continued, “you idiot. I mean, what happened? Some spell the Ministry cast on you requiring you to do this? Why now? She’s finally better now and you come into our home and wave your wand around our front hall-”

             “-I wasn’t waving it in your front hall! Dammit Marcus, in case we’re remembering things differently I was the one lying prostate on the floor while Bell was pointing two wands, mine and hers at me!” Draco yelled.

             Flint took a deep breath. Draco could see his arms clenching.

             In a lower tone of voice, Flint said, “I swear to Slytherin I’ll castrate you and feed your balls to Hagrid’s monster dog if you repeat this but fuck Malfoy, do you remember how good a flier she was in Hogwarts? Because I do. She was good enough to be scouted. After your little trick, she couldn’t get on a broom without shaking. And she had nightmares. When I first started staying the night, more times than not, she would wake up in the middle of the night screaming. All because of that necklace. Do you know that while she was in a coma, she was having nightmares? Six months of living in her mind in one continuous nightmare.”

             There was nausea and dizziness and for a moment, Draco had to bend over with his hands on his knees. He thought of what it was like living in his own nightmare, the one he always had, of being branded, of being forced to kill Dumbledore.

             He didn’t know what Bell dreamt about in her coma but what he had done had changed her life. And the man in St. Mungo’s, while Draco never killed anybody when he was a Death Eater he had still participated in the raids- helping even if the Avada never came from his wand. And with all those anonymous people Draco had seen during the raids, the man’s wife could so easily have been in one of them.

             Before, Bell and these people were just pieces, a means to reach an end. And now….

             Flint was right, what was the point? Bell had created a better life for herself, what good would his apology be?

             Draco didn’t have an answer for himself, but he was sorry.

             “You’re right, it won’t do her any good. Maybe I’m selfish and I want it for myself. But to be honest, Marcus, I don’t think an apology will help me sleep better at night,” Draco whispered. “I was wrong to hurt her and this is what people do when they’re wrong.”

             In the end, it was Flint who cast a cheering charm on him and helped him up. “Come on. I can’t promise you she’ll hear you out but I have a 1981 Firewhiskey at home and _I_ need a drink.”

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The lines at the start are from Sonnet XXV of Pablo Neruda's 100 Love Sonnets. No money is made from this, no copyright infringement intended.
> 
> AN: No Astoria in this chapter but our hero needs to grow a bit before his happily ever after.

Everything was empty, dead, mute, 

Fallen abandoned, and decayed:   
Inconceivably alien, it all  
  
Belonged to someone else - to no one:   
Till your beauty…  
Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts. 

 _-Sonnet XXV_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

             Draco longed for the inertia of depression. He understood the appeal of it; that with the loss of the urge to move came a numbness that he can only anticipate and yearn for. But he had made a choice that set him in this track. The same way that he made a choice years ago to follow his father, to follow the Dark Lord and it made _that_ past track a one-way street that he cannot travel backwards on. He can no longer return to the past to change things, only forward.

            Yet on the day he decided to go to Bell- no Katie, he corrected himself- on that day, he created a new track. Perhaps it is also a track that he cannot go back on, but he did not desire to go back, even if this new track he forged for himself seemed uphill and impossible.

            He wanted to do it for Astoria. Even if he could not go back to her- another track that he cannot traverse backwards. He wanted to do go gain her approval, to prove himself to her. Yet, deep down, he knew, despite his penchant for self-deception, that he was doing this for himself as well.

            Dumbledore’s memorial was on a hill, glistening with a magic that was beyond what was taught in the halls of Hogwarts. It was deep and impenetrable and beautiful. Perhaps, he thought with some irony, it was the magic of a thousand tears shed.

            He was able to slip into Hogwarts together with a few wizards who were there on tour.

 _Tourists!_ He almost scoffed at that. _Oh how Hogwarts had fallen,_ he thought. But the tears and admiration in the tourists’ eyes locked the thought in his head and shamed him. It made him realize that he did not fully understand and respect the scope and magnitude of Dumbledore’s tomb.

            He wasonly there for a few minutes, when a great flurry of black and green descended on him.

            “Mr. Malfoy!” The voice was calm, curt, demanding and powerful at the same time. It reminded him of a hundred lost house points and detention all at once.

            Next to him stood McGonagall and she seemed bigger than she had been before. Draco had always found her a bit frightening, even if he refused to acknowledge that back then, but he had also always found her a bit shrill and sometimes shrinking as well. Now, the additional authority and responsibility fit her like a well-tailored cloak. Being headmistress suited her.           

            “Headmistress,” he greeted with a respectful nod, willing his voice not to break and thanking Merlin and Salazar and the Bloody Baron all at once when it didn’t.

            “I may not be able to discipline you anymore, but I still have the right to throw you out of campus,” she began. “But, in recognition of what your mother had done for Harry, I will give you the dignity of leaving.”

            Draco felt his face heat up. He had come here to settle something, part of which was his past faults. It was bad enough that he can never regain that which he wished for, because dead men cannot forgive, but can’t a former Death Eater pay his respects and make his regrets in peace?

            Draco cleared his throat. “I was just lea-“

            “There you are,” the greeting sounded stiff. “I thought I owled you to say to meet me at the greenhouses, Draco.” As awkward as his name sounded from the speaker’s mouth, Draco was not above taking the excuse offered.

            “Long-“ Draco cleared his throat again- “Neville.” If he thought his name was awkward coming from Longbottom, then Longbottom’s name coming from his sounded as if he gargled rocks. “I must have missed your owl.”

            “It’s okay, Minerva,” Neville said, turning to the Headmistress with a reassuring smile, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

            Draco didn’t know which boded less for his peace of mind, the fact that it was Longbottom- Neville- who was making excuses on his behalf, or the fact that _Neville_ could call McGonagall, Minerva more comfortably than he could mention Draco’s name.

            McGonagall did not even bother hiding her incredulity but it did the work, and she did not bother to call Neville out on his blatant lie.

            They both turned their backs on the memorial and squinted into the distance, waiting for the Headmistress to disappear down the hill. Then they waited a few minutes more before Draco decided to break their silence.

            “She didn’t believe us.” It wasn’t a question.

            “Not at all,” Neville’s reply was cheerful and Draco hated that he did not seem phased by this fact at all.

            “What will she do?” Draco asked. He was struck by the absurdity of the moment. He, Draco Malfoy, was having an almost pleasant conversation with Longbottom. Even the best of seers could not have predicted this.

            Neville shrugged then went to Dumbledore’s memorial and Draco had no choice but to follow. The crowd had thinned out, although the few that lingered threw sharp gazes in Draco’s direction. He ignored them, but the effort to do so made him weary.

            Standing next to the memorial, Neville seemed deep in thought. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he spoke. “She’ll probably go to the headmasters’ office to talk to Snape.”

            It took Draco a moment to grasp that it was in answer to his question. “She’ll talk to Snape about me?”

            “She’ll ask his opinion on why you’re here.”

            Draco paused, thinking about that. And he realized that he had no idea what Snape would conjecture, which said something about his relationship with his former head of house. Neville, on the other hand had tapped a few of the weeds that were growing around the memorial with his wand. Draco expected the weeds to whither, instead they started growing at an alarming rate.

            “What-“ but his words were stolen from him when the work was done. The weeds became bushes which sported tiny, yellow oval fruit that sparkled under the sun. It carried with it the scent of honey admixed with a bit tartness. He picked one and brought it to his nose.

            “Lemon gumdrops.” There was no hiding that Draco found all of this dubious. 

            Neville had a wry smile on. “Dumbledore would have liked them. We can even pretend they came from you.”

            Draco took a step back to look at the memorial, to take the entire picture as a whole. Nestled among Neville’s newly grown gumdrop bushes and the bouquets left by the tourists, the tomb lost some of its austerity, and instead looked warm. Well loved.

            He doubted that even if he lived twice as long as Dumbledore and he dedicated the rest of his life to charity that he will ever receive the same feeling from others. And he came to the acceptance that he didn’t need it. And perhaps he didn’t want it. He realized that the stares and the whispers will probably never go away completely. And maybe that was something that he could live with and welcome. It was a penance, for a lot of the things that he now regretted. It was a penance for his mother’s tenuous position in society, a penance for the deaths of Crabbe and Goyle, a penance for doing too much for the affection of a father that he both loved and hated at the same time. It was a penance for the cowardice that he could not control and instead he allowed to control him.

            Maybe if he atoned for enough years, then he could learn to live with himself.

            What he did want was a reassurance that the Headmaster (because in his mind Dumbledore was always the Headmaster) somehow understood what he had done. That in his greatness- as the others attest to it- Dumbledore understood that Draco felt he had no choice at the time, even if now, he realized that he did. 

            “You won’t get it here you know.” Neville’s statement broke through his reverie. The comment was said quietly, kindly and it made Draco angrier. His hands clenched at his sides and he fought the urge to punch Neville- no _Longbottom_ he sneered in his mind- in the face. He wanted to erase the compassionate understanding there with his fists.

            “You-“ he started to retort in anger. Then stopped himself. _You don’t know what you’re talking about._ He was about to shout that. But it seemed that Neville did understand. 

            He’ll never get forgiveness. He was years too late. Maybe this new track that he had chosen was merely a dead end one. Futile. Senseless. He felt his shoulders hunch over. His eyes were stinging.

            “But you still came here.” Neville’s voice was still kind, breaking through the noise of his mind and the sting in his eyes. “And that makes a difference.”

            Draco was shocked by the weight on his shoulder, and realized that Neville had rested his hand there.

            “Come on Draco,” he nodded in a general direction away from the memorial. “Let’s get drinks at Hogsmede. You can pay for them, since I kept McGonagall from kicking you out.”

***

            Years ago, if somebody told him that he would be in the Three Broomsticks drinking firewhiskey with Neville, he would have told them to book a room in the Magical Maladies Ward of St. Mungo’s. As it stands, a lot of things were no longer impossibilities in his incomprehensible life.

            Neville had ordered the drinks, with a full disclaimer that Draco intended to pay. He should have found it annoying. Hell, he did find it annoying, but for some reason that surprised him, he also found it ironically amusing.

            “I’m poor,” Neville explained once they both had the glasses placed in front of them.

            Malfoy looked at him in surprise. He didn’t expect small talk. What he expected was Neville to bunch up his shirt the moment they stepped into Hogsmede and kick him in the butt or at least- Draco snorted in his mind- try to kick him in the butt. Although Neville’s new confidence probably came from being a key player in the defeat of Voldemort. He had pulled that sword from the hat, after all.

            Warily, he gazed into his glass. Then he threw back the whole thing before speaking. “Board and food paid for by the school should keep expenses down.” He tried to keep the sneer from his voice.

            Neville ignored his mean comment and looked pointedly at the now empty glass in front of Draco. “I don’t know if I should valiantly keep up with you or pity you and pretend that you’re an alcoholic.”

            That put a small smile on Draco’s face. “Keep up with me.”

            Neville shrugged then threw back the contents of his glass, keeping the resulting sputter to a minimum. “Merlin!” He shuddered in distaste.

            Draco poured them a second glass and this time sipped his drink slowly.

            “I doubt you’re poor,” Draco began the conversation again, albeit awkwardly. “Longbottom and all being an old family.”

            “Yeah, but I haven’t touched my inheritance. Something to prove, I guess. Also being prudent,” Neville said by way of explanation as he took another sip of firewhiskey. “Academics isn’t high paying, you know. Money comes from side businesses and personal research which I might have to use my inheritance for.”

            Draco thought about that. Slytherin wasn’t _entirely_ comprised of moneyed wizards but he never associated with those who were less than able before. And despite the sanctions set against his family, he had been able to keep and work on a lot of his father’s business ventures. Neville’s frank discussion of his financial state was both an unsettling education in the realities of the post-war economy and the economy of people on the other side. It was also a surprise. It wasn’t a bad conversation and so far, Neville’s congeniality sort of surpassed his expectations.

            “That gumdrop tree. Seems like something that could earn you some money. It will sell big for a time, a novelty,” Draco said.

            “I know. But it’s still in its early development stage, needs more work. And realistically it also takes something like investors to get it off the ground. Something that I don’t have,” Neville explained. Then, after a moment of studying the bottom of the glass, he threw a pointed glance at Draco. “So why are you here?”

_And so the hard part begins._

            “I thought you sent me an owl to meet you at the greenhouses,” Draco replied glibly.  

            Neville snorted in the middle of pouring himself another glass of firewhiskey from the bottle in front of them.

            “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re still as swotty as ever.” Neville smiled then more seriously he added, “Ron told me that you went to the Ministry a few days back. Talked to them about some disgruntled guy who attacked you in Diagon Alley.”

            Draco couldn’t stop the sneer on his face. “Weasel’s still a big gossip.” Old habits did indeed die hard.

            But Neville didn’t seem to take too much of an offence. “They told me you didn’t go to complain. That you went to ask what you can do to help the new rash of anti-muggle vandalisms.”

            The fact that the bloody Griffindors were talking about him at all shocked Draco. But what came next shocked him all the more.

            “Ron _Weasley-_ “ Neville emphasized the name- “was grudgingly impressed by how you handled yourself. Although to be honest, very grudgingly. On the other hand, Harry didn’t seem surprised at all.”

            “It seemed-“ Draco groped around for words- “the right thing to do.” He punctuated his statement with a long gulp of firewhiskey. As he poured himself another glass, he realized that the bottle was half empty. Neville was drinking him under the table, his initial disgust probably an act.

            It suited Neville, Draco realized, this understatement of his character. He was never flashy. He was never really a part of the trio of Weasel, Bushy-haired-girl and the Boy-Who-Surprisingly-Survived. But he held his own in their seventh year. He fought back the Carrows. He heard that Neville headed the anti-Voldemort movement in Hogwarts. And in the end, he had pulled out the sword from the hat and had killed the snake. The hideous snake that had so frightened Draco when it resided in Malfoy Manor. The snake that had turned out to be a horcrux and that act had turned the tide of battle.  

            Neville studied him for a long time, as if weighing the truth of his words against the truths of his past deeds and Draco felt as if he had been laid bare. He wondered where he lay in the scale that was in Neville Longbottom’s judgement. He didn’t know what Neville concluded but he nodded, as if satisfied with Draco’s answer. Suddenly, Draco understood that they probably wouldn’t talk about it anymore.

            They drank in silence for a moment, and Draco noticed that Neville was _really_ drinking him under the table.

            In a more affable tone, he added “I’ve heard things, you know. Astoria and I are friends.”

            Draco felt his throat clutch and his mouth dry up. _Friends._ She still surprised him, somehow, despite having dated her for six months. There were little details of her life that he longed to know. A desire burned in him to turn her inside out and discover all her little secrets. To spend the rest of his days discovering her. He always felt that she would continue to surprise him for the rest of his life.

_Rest of his life._

            He had never thought of it before and wondered where the thought had come from, but he was struck dumb and he realized the veracity in the thought, as if his mind put to fore his most treasured secret, his most fervent desire. Forever with Astoria seemed like a blessing, like rainfall in a desert, an oasis in the barren landscape that felt like his life.

            “She came to me to tutor her in Herbology. Not that she couldn’t get an E in it on her own, but she wanted an O. Determined to get it,” Neville explained. Then in a shrewd voice he added, “I heard rumors. Was able to talk to her recently.”

            Draco frantically searched for something to say but Neville beat him to it.

            “Why did you break up with her?”

            “Because I’m an idiot.” The answer came in a low rushed voice before he could even stop himself.

            Neville raised his eyebrows in agreement. As if challenging him to continue. When Draco couldn’t find his voice, it was Neville who spoke again.

            “And this visit to Dumbldore, is it for you or for her?”

            “Both.” The answer came swiftly enough that it startled him. But it was true, like all the other truths he uttered this day. He took the bottle of firewhiskey and peered inside.

            “Veritaserum?”

            Neville snorted. “Going to a priest to confess under the influence of Veritaserum defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

            “You’re hardly a priest, Longbottom.”

            “True, but it seems like I’m serving the same purpose.” Then more kindly, he added, “I’m not in the position to offer forgiveness. Besides, you don’t need it from me. Maybe a look in mirror might do you more good.”

            The words seared him, and the fact that Neville seemed to understand floored him.

            The people he wanted to talk to were all gone, and he had a hand in it. And maybe, he really did need to forgive himself as well, but self-recrimination was something that he had been living with, all these years after the war. It was a second skin now, not comfortable, no it will never be, but it made him feel like he was trying to be someone who deserved to live. Maybe even someone who deserved her. Someone who deserved to be happy.

***

             Draco left Neville with a handshake and a new business agreement to fund the gumdrop trees. It made him feel- good? He shook his head. Maybe feel a bit better. It was, after all, his first real contribution to the Malfoy businesses. So far, all he had been doing was managing and improving his father’s work, but this was the first time that he was doing something that he wanted to do. He was forging a new path, his own path, and there were no guideposts along the way. It scared him, but it also excited him. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an end to this that was better than where he came from.


	7. Chapter 7

_…in which there is no I or you_

_so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,_

_so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close._

_-Sonnet XVII_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

 

          He sat alone, in the dark with his thoughts for Merlin knew how long. A dangerous thing, he knew, but the dark seemed to offer a kind of comfort that the light would not yield for him. He was waiting- for something. For her, perhaps, or for absolution.

          “Draco!”

          Astoria sounded surprised. As surprised- Draco supposed- as anybody who found an uninvited ex-boyfriend slouched on her couch, brooding in her living room, in the dark past midnight. His only comfort was that she didn’t sound afraid of him.

          “I….“ He didn’t really have any words. Or maybe he had too many of them, like: _I’m sorry_ , or _I love you_ , or _don’t make me leave_ , or _are you dating fucking Ciano_ , or _can’t we just go back_ , but he felt too weary to muster the courage to say any of those and all he really wanted, _no needed_ , was to touch her, or maybe just see her face, to stay in her presence if only for a moment while he found the courage to move past the hurt.

          A debate took over Astoria’s face before she finally arranged her face into a worried look and said, “you shouldn’t have left a few days ago, without your discharge orders. You’re not completely well.”

          “I’ll survive,” he declared hoarsely.

          She moved closer, sat on the coffee table directly in front of him and waved her wand over him. The blue light of a diagnostic spell flared from the tip and Draco kept himself still as her wand systematically moved over his body. She clucked her tongue every time the blue shifted to a dull violet as her wand passed over the places where he was sore, but there was no bright red light, an indication of a major injury.

          “You still shouldn’t have left. You know better than to leave without a discharge.”

          “I…” he tried once again to explain. “Astoria, I almost used a _cruciatus_ on him. I was so close.” He shook his head, anything to keep him from looking into her eyes. The concern there would undermine his resolve.

          “But you didn’t.” Her voice, devoid of judgment, held gentleness. Her hand traced his jaw, turning his head towards hers. “You didn’t. That’s what matters, Draco.”

          “And if I did?”

          She tilted his chin, made him meet her eyes. In the darkness, all he could see were the twin light of her pupils, the furrow of her worried brow and the soft slope of her mouth turned into a frown.

          “Then you get punished. You make amends. But Draco, you didn’t. And you have to stop blaming yourself for things that you haven’t committed.”

          “I’ve done so much,” he sounded broken as only a man in the dark can be. He felt her searching hand cup his cheeks. Tomorrow, he’d vow to be a Malfoy, unaffected and collected. Tonight, he’d allow himself to be _merely Draco_ , broken, in front of her.

          “You want to tell me what happened?”

          He searched for the words that he wanted to say, then decided to explain the things that he had been doing. For himself. To be better.

          “I- I went to Katie. Bell.” In case she didn’t know, he added: “in my sixth year, the year Dumbledore was… when I was….” he shuddered as he tried to find the words. “when I….”

          Astoria tightened her hand on his. “I know her. I remember. I was in school then too.”

          “You’d have been in what, your fourth year?”

          She shrugged. “But I knew what happened to her.”

          The thing was, Draco was certain she didn’t know _everything_. She may have known what happened to Katie Bell but she wouldn’t have known that _he_ was behind everything.

          Astoria was still speaking. “The school heard, of course, you know how it is. There were stories, about the necklace and the Imperius….” He knew the moment when understanding lit upon her. He watched as her hand lifted to her mouth and she gasped. He could only look away.

          “That was you.” Her shocked whisper echoed in the stillness of the night, reverberating in his mind.

          Quickly, he stood up to make to leave when he felt her grip his wrist.

          “Tell me what happened,” she said firmly. “You went to see Katie Bell.”

          He dropped back to the couch but he bowed his head and mostly spoke to his hands.

          “The guy, in the hospital, he talked about his wife and at first I thought, well the bastard was accusing me of things I didn’t do, so fuck him. But the thing is, Astoria, he was right.”

          He turned to her to gauge her reaction but her brow remained furrowed with concern instead of disgust and Draco sighed.

          “I don’t mean I was doing what he said, but _what if_ during the raids his wife was killed and I just stood by. His wife wasn’t one of Dumbledore’s. She was just some bystander. Then I remembered Bell. I did _that_ to her. All I was thinking was Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, and it was like chess and Katie was merely a pawn that I had to get across the board.”

          The quiet was a stifling thing, but Astoria made no sound for which Draco was grateful. He was afraid that once he stopped talking, he wouldn’t be able to restart this confession.

          “So I left the hospital and went to Zabini who had some contacts in the Ministry. Asked him to find out where Bell lives,” Draco continued. “I went to her home because I had to….” He paused, “make amends.”

          Astoria remained silent, the feel of her thumb tracing circles on his hand, was the only thing that urged him on.

          “She’s living with Marcus Flint.”

          She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

          “You know him?” Draco asked.

          “I may not be Slytherin but of course I know him. First, he was in Hogwarts and he’s probably the first in a hundred years to repeat his NEWTs. Second, he’s a pro-quidditch player. A very popular quidditch player,” Astoria replied.

          “For the former, I know you’re Ravenclaw but don’t let Flint repeating his seventh year fool you. The bloke’s clever. He did it to avoid getting the mark,” Draco explained. “For the latter, you vehemently hate quidditch. You _do_ know it’s played on brooms and several balls, right?”

          She rolled her eyes. “All right, I concede, I may know nothing about quidditch, but women treat Flint’s like he’s the second coming of Merlin.” Then grumbling, she added, “which is surprising considering those teeth.”

          Draco felt a small smile on his lips but it left quickly when he realized that rest of what he had to say.

          “Astoria, I thought she wouldn’t talk to me.”

          “Did she?”

          Draco nodded. “Flint talked to me first then he talked to Bell a bit.”

          “That was nice of him,” Astoria said, curiosity obvious in her voice.

          “Then we were in their home and Flint made tea then left us alone. And all I could tell her was sorry.” Draco’s voice cracked. Just saying the words were difficult, even if it was just a retelling of much more difficult events that happened earlier.

          It was a carryover from his father’s lessons: a Malfoy never says sorry.

          He took a steadying breath. “I thought she would hex me but she just nodded and said, give her some time to accept what I said. But she thanked me…. She _thanked_ me. For making the effort to do that. How could she….” The sob that tore loose from his throat was the keening cry of a wounded animal. Her arms went around him and she was all warmth and hushed whispers. Draco didn’t know how long they were in that position, with him on the couch and her on the coffee table, their arms intertwined like they where one living being. His heartbeat was an erratic tattoo that she answered with her own; her breathing and his united in the same inhale and exhale.

          “And then Longbottom….” His voice trailed off.

          “Neville?”

          Draco told her about his visit to Dumbledore’s tomb, and of how Neville’s talk with him stripped him bare.

          He thought about forgiveness and mistakes and how hard it was sometimes to stand up again.

          “Sometimes,” she began when he had finished what he had to say, when his heartbeat had finally slowed, “sometimes, when we get hurt, we don’t want an apology because the other person was wrong. Sometimes, we want it so that we know that the other person understands our hurt. Sometimes, it is not about justice. Sometimes it’s about understanding and feeling and empathy.”

          “I don’t deserve it,” he said, softly, after a moment. “I don’t deserve their kindness.”

          He had finally said it, the thing that had been bothering him from the beginning. Not just with Katie, or the man in St. Mungo’s but with her, with Astoria. That he didn’t deserve her. That no matter what he did, he would never deserve her.

          He dropped his head to his hands, steeling himself for the moment when he had to leave, not just this place but Astoria, whose arms felt like protection and a welcoming and home.

          He felt the couch shift next to him as it accommodated her weight. He felt her hand brush his hair from his forehead.

          “Draco, do you want to stay tonight?”

***

          When she said the words, he understood that it wasn’t an invitation to her bed. There was a past and a hurt and- fucking Ciano- and a million other hurdles. So he stayed on her couch and was grateful because he didn’t know if he could have survived a night in his home with the weight of his family legacy and the taint of the past smothering away his will to move on.

***

          In the darkness, he dreamt. And his dreams were filled with giant snakes and screams coming from the basement of his house. He dreamt of blood on the white marble floor of the dining room, like roses coming to bloom in the middle of winter. He dreamt of a bonelike face sniffing his mother’s hair, as the creature pressed a wand into the throbbing of her neck. He dreamt of his father kneeling in pain in front of them, the cackling laugh of Bellatrix the musical accompaniment like a discordant violin.

          He didn’t know what had happened. As with his other nightmares, he would forget them almost instantaneously, with only the feeling of intense fear and the pounding of his heart remaining as proof that the dreams had visited him. Somehow, he knew his nightmares were about Voldemort and he had read somewhere that maybe his amnesia of them was the way his waking self was protecting his mind.

          But tonight the nightmares were vivid and tangible.

          So this was novel; this sensation of waking up to warm arms and soothing words after the intense racing of his heart and almost having his sanity stripped away. There was nothing for him to do but stare straight ahead in the darkness. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes open, tried to hold onto everything solid and real and present because closing his eyes would mean sleep which held the past and his crimes.

          “You’re safe.” Her voice was a lifeline he clung to. “It’s just a dream.” He probably had woken her up with his screams, for she was sitting in the couch next to him and he tried to huddle into her warmth.

          He remembered how he lost her. He remembered how he pushed her away, thinking that she wouldn’t be hurt because in the end, it was for the best.

          He was wrong. He remembered the contents of her letters, the ones that he never answered but had kept bound in a silk ribbon inside a sandalwood box. He remembered how she had looked at the first few months of their separation, as if she had lost weight and was weary.

          As the saying goes about good intentions and the road to hell.

          “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered, knowing that it was not an apology for waking her up, but rather for everything else. Despite his confessions earlier, he had never talked to her about the heart of the issue between them.

          Whenever they had argued, even when he was at fault, he had never apologized to her. He’d make it up to her. He’d make sure to let her choose what to do on their date or he’d go out of his way to make sex more pleasurable than usual for her. But he had never said the words.

_A Malfoy never says sorry._ His father’s voice.

          But in the darkness, at that moment, he was merely Draco.

          Then he realized that all this time, while to everyone else he was Malfoy, former Death Eater, Slytherin wanker and Dumbledore’s assassin, to Astoria he was always, only Draco, merely himself in all of his scarred and shattered glory.

           “I’m sorry,” he repeated again and again, a hoarse whisper in the dark.

           She understood. And Astoria, being Astoria merely shook her head and whispered, “we’re okay, Draco.”

           Because the cover of darkness made him brave and because bravery loosened his tongue, he spoke, the words rushing from him in desperation. Words, that before, he had never declared to her. “I love you and I don’t deserve you. If you’re with Ciano, I understand. I just need you to know this. I love you. But if you decide you want me, I can’t promise not to hurt you unintentionally. I’m not a good person. But I love you.”

          He heard her broken gasp and felt her arms shudder around him, and when he pulled slightly away, he saw the tears that trailed down her cheeks, tracks turned silver by the moonlight.

          “If you lo-“ Draco swallowed- “love him. If you are happy with him, then I want you to be happy. But I want to tell you. I need you to know. I-“ his voice broke. “I love you.”

          The remained unmoving in the dark, their arms tangled up in each other, their bodies wrapped in his confession. They sat in silence for a long time while Draco, in his mind, bartered with fate to keep them locked in this little pocket of time and space, to prevent these things from running elsewhere, to hold the world from its unending spin.

          Finally, she spoke. “Rodolfo’s a good friend and my training partner in the program. So we spend a lot of time together.”

_Friend._

          “But Daphne’s wedding.” He protested because he feared the strange fluttering of hope in his chest. He feared that the crushing weight of hopelessness would be worse than his present state if her words were not real.

          “I needed a date.”

          “Daphne said-“ He paused at the sight of her cocked eyebrow.

          There were a hundred words in that expression. Words like: _What the hell were you thinking? Why did you not talk to me instead?_ And the worst of all: _You believed Daphne? Of all people?_ None of these, of course, she said. And he saw how he could have made that mistake and how it was an injustice to her. Because Astoria, _his Astoria_ , never assumed things.

          He of course, he let himself assume the worst of the situation. His mind was distorting what he saw to fit his image of himself. That he did not deserve her. That he was not meant to have her. As if sensing when the realization came upon him, Astoria cupped her hand on his cheek and wiped away his tears.

          “I love you too.” Astoria’s broken voice was both a knife and a balm. And maybe, maybe that’s all we need.”

          This night was the first time he saw her cry. He kissed away the silver trails of tears. Then he pulled her in his arms and together they cried some more and they fell asleep on her couch tangled in each other.

* * *

          The next day he went to the Manor. He spent three hours talking with his mother. The first hour he had spent rationalizing with her, talking about the need for an heir and how, short of inbreeding, they might not find another pureblood that has escaped the stigma of Voldemort support like the Greengrasses. Piqued that he never admitted it to her, even if she suspected, Narcissa remained unconvinced, claiming he was still too young.

          The next hour he spent cajoling her, talking about how she was aging gracefully, as if not a day over thirty and how his bride to be could never compare to her. His mother, unbelievably, merely fluffed her hair as if this was the most obvious thing but still refused.

          By the last hour, he was so frustrated and so despondent that he gazed wearily at her.

          He said simply. “Mother, she’s the one I would give up dancing for.”

          He left with a three hundred year old, diamond and platinum, goblin-wrought ring encased inside a silk and velvet box, nestled in the pocket of his coat.

***

          A month after, when he stayed the night, he slipped the box in her dresser drawer, knowing, wishing that she would find it. He hoped for assumption, because it would spare him the act of asking.

          When a week passed without any mention, he peeked into her dresser. The way the box was haphazardly returned in the drawer, very much unlike how it originally was positioned, with absolutely no attempt of at least hiding the fact of its discovery told him that yes, she saw the ring. And he wished that she would assume that he was proposing. At one point he even wished that she would assume that he was seeing someone behind her back and proposing to that person. He wished she would _assume anything,_ anything at allto lead them to the conversation of marriage. Because in his mind, there was no way she could not have thought of marriage.

          Yet she still did not mention it.

          He avoided her for two weeks. He told her that he needed to sort out Malfoy business. In truth, he was waiting for her to come to him, to confront him. And when he couldn’t bear it any longer, he was the one that went to her. He wanted her to ask him about a fenced in garden complete with gnomes, two point four kids and a kneezle. Instead she asked him about his day.

          So he blurted out: “Astoria, do you think about marriage? You know, the fenced in house and the two point four children?”

          It didn’t help that that marriage got him thinking about fatherhood then briefly about Lucius before he remembered that his father had almost as good as sold him off to the Dark Lord. Because what kind of a father would he make if that was the example he had grown up to?

          “Draco, I think a point four kid is frightening, even from a wizarding perspective despite our capability of putting arms back to splinched victims.” He didn’t know what she saw in his expression because she changed tract mid comment and finished more seriously. “Sure, perhaps someday.”

          Did she mean someday with him? Someday with somebody else? Was this her way of turning him down nicely?

          It was then that he realized, after how he was treated in The Leaky Calderon, after their first date, after how shabbily he treated her the past few months, after the incident in Diagon Alley and St. Mungo’s, after the war and the implications of his last name that he wished to hoist off on her, at the very least she deserved a grand gesture. Except he wasn’t the big gestures kind of guy. Not anymore. Perhaps once he was, when the gesture meant a two page spread in the society pages and his mother calling the shots, making the restaurant reservations and tipping off the reporters. Because the Malfoy name of the yesteryears deserved a grandeur commensurate to its stature. As it was, the Malfoy name meant nothing and all he had now was the heirloom ring and absolutely no idea of what to do or say to her. All he knew was that kneeling was involved and he didn’t kneel.

          The one time he knelt was when the Dark Lord had bent mercilessly over him and cast the spell that would scar his forearm and forever curse him to the Dark Lord’s beck and call. And he remembered that upon standing, something felt shattered in him, something he had never reassembled again.

          Then he remembered Katie and Marcus, trying despite their past, taking their relationship a day at a time. He remembered Neville, giving him not just the benefit of the doubt, but an afternoon of more compassion than Draco had ever experienced in his entire life.

          Yet somehow he waited too long to speak because Astoria looked defeated.

          “Draco, I was hoping you would ask nicely.” Then she added a little wryly, “not that you’re obliged.”

           They stared at each other for what seemed like forever and a day and he could only watch as her face crumpled with the realization that he could not say it.

           The words were trapped in his mind.

 

_Will you honor me by being my wife?_

_Because you are the moon and I am the all the world’s oceans whose tides have always been yours to command. I have tried living without you and it has left me empty. You are more elemental than magic. You are more vital than fire and water and the air that I breathe._

           He loved her and he would lose her just because he could not say the words. The fear of her rejection stilled his tongue, and he knew that there was no way he would say the words he wanted to say, the words he kept secret because they were beautiful and true and raw and thus more powerful in their ability to wound. 

           He watched as she turned away from him, slowly, gracefully, with dignity enough for both their Pureblood names. He watched as she made to leave. Pride and self-preservation clogged up his throat and there were no words, not even the snarling ones that were second nature to him.

          In the end, all he could come up with was this:

          “Astoria. This-” He pressed a fist to his chest, an encompassing gesture of the love he had for her. “-This is forever.”

          His voice was rough and angry. Not the expected pleading tone but she must have heard it, the desperate pleading in his voice beneath it all- the way she recognized all of his hidden truths- because she turned. And despite his personal injunction against kneeling, he dropped down to _both knees_ and opened the box.

          There was silence.

          As she pushed his hair from his eyes and when she gave him that look- the same one on the balcony the night they first met, the one she reserved for him the night that he apologized he, when that unnerving look of understanding that had made him whole instead of shattering him crossed her face, he knew.

          There was only her and him and the kind of love that exists that need not be spoken of.

 

_I love you as certain dark things are loved,_

_…..between the shadow and the soul._

_-Sonnet XVII_ from _100 love sonnets, **Pablo Neruda**_

 

**Finite**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No histrionics from Draco or Astoria, just good old conversation between the two of them. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading despite the erratic timing of my posts.


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